


JW (Jane Eyre Crossover)

by jonnyluvssherlock



Series: Film/Book Crossover [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bigamy, Cheating, Friends to Lovers, Harry is John's cousin, Infidelity, Irene Adler is Hamish's mother, Jane Eyre crossover, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Madness, Minor Character Death, Obsessive Love, PTSD John, Sassy John, Sassy Sherlock, Sexual Content, Trauma, Unhappy marriage, anthea is french, corrupting, john as john eyre, john had a terrible childhood, john is the image of innocence to sherlock, john walks with a cane, lying, multiple marriage proposals, murder plots, mycroft is an asshole, sherlock as rodchester, sherlock is vague when he talks, sherlock makes john jealous, sherlock wants to escape his past, some religious moral talk, talk of religion, talking about insanity, told from john's pov, very religious lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyluvssherlock/pseuds/jonnyluvssherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of the enclosed life he's always lived John advertises for a tutoring position.  Even hidden in the finery of Thornfield Hall John can't escape his past and his painful memories.  His employer Sherlock helps to distract him and it seems his presents is softening Sherlock's heart.  But he will soon discovers that Sherlock's hiding a terrible secret.  One that may destroy them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kestrelwing did the beta work for this fic and i just want to say thank you. this is a tough one.
> 
> tags and characters will change as i write more of the fic.
> 
> Words in italics are being spoken in French. Since John in the narrator of this story and understands French we get to see what is being spoken. I just wanted to make sure it was understood that the French characters weren't speaking English. 
> 
> There are more notes at the end explaining things about the culture of the time and why things came up in this fic. If you have any questions please comments and I will add it to the notes.
> 
> Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission.

John woke, tossed from a dream, and looked around himself and found he was in rectory sleeping in the spare room. By the light coming through his window he could tell it was just before dawn.

 

He dressed quickly pulled on his boots just in time to see the dawn come over the hills over the school where he had spent most of his young life. He stood breathing in the crisp morning air and stared at the sun as it came over the hill. It was calming being alone as the world still slept.

 

The morning was chill but he set himself to walk across the yard one last time. With the aid of his cane he made his way slowly to the small graveyard at the side of the school then to the grave he was searching for. It was plain, just a simple slab with the name Mark Morstan on it. John stood before it and sighed.

 

“I’m off again. You knew I couldn’t stay.” He paused. “It’ll be alright this time. No more fighting. I promise.” He felt lighter that day than he had in a long time, like he was casting off a role that hadn’t fit him and was reclaiming his natural element. He was beginning to feel the stir of old emotions.

 

“John?” He heard a voice call from the front yard.

 

John smiled at the grave then walked back from where he’d come. “Coming, Vicar.”

 

For the next hour before the carriage arrived John made sure he had packed and got one of the students to carry his trunk out to the front of the school. Mr. Stamford the school’s Vicar seemed out of sorts. He wanted to give advice and food and frankly didn’t know when to stop. When the carriage arrived the porter pulled the trunk on top and John stopped to say his last goodbye. He recalled the time so many years ago when he had traveled the road in a coach to come to Bart’s School at the age of seven, and now he was leaving for a final time.

 

John put a hand out for them to shake, but Mr. Stamford grabbed him and pulled him into an awkward hug. When it was over John smiled and let himself be helped into the carriage so he could be on his way. He would never see this place again. He understood that. While part of him was sad, another part of him was ready to forget the past.

 

Part 1

 

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

 

I am glad you found my recommendations satisfactory for the post of tutor at Thornfield Hall. Please send directions about how I am to reach you and I will attempt to be there no later than next week.

 

John H. Watson

 

John sat gloomily in the carriage on his way to Thornfield Hall. Part of him dreaded ever advertising his skills while another part of him was glad that there was still something that he could do with his life. After being wounded in action at the age of twenty John had been sure his life was over. After spending all his young life in service he had at first hoped for freedom but that wasn’t so easy, so he had settled for servitude that he had negotiated himself.

 

It was dark by the time he reached the great house. He had opened his window to get a better look, but he could just see its large form standing out against the light of the moon. They passed through a set of gates to enter the property and a gruff man greeted them, holding a lantern who opened the carriage door and then stepped aside for John, greeting him. John grabbed the edge of the carriage and set his cane outside on the ground for support.

 

As John slowly lowered himself down a woman’s voice echoed out a door.

 

“Oh dear, you poor thing.”

 

John looked up. A nicely dressed older woman was walking towards him, her hands extended as if she might catch him. She had a look of pity on her face, a look John had been used to seeing.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He quickly smiled at her to make her more comfortable and she smiled back.

 

“Let’s get you inside and warmed up.” She replied.

 

John woke the next day the next day in his room, the first room he’s ever had to himself since he’d been a small child. The sun had risen less than an hour ago, and John was feeling relaxed. The long carriage ride the day before had been hard on him. His body ached and by the end (the end of what?) his mind had wandered into unwelcome territory.

 

He sat on the edge of his bed and looked around his room. It was small most likely compared to other rooms in the house but it was his. It was the largest room he’d ever had. He was going to have to get used to having so much space for himself. He supposed that would come in time.

 

He walked over to his dressing table and poured some water in the basin to wash himself. As John washed he thought about his talk with Mrs. Hudson who he had mistaken for the owner of the house. An honest mistake, he felt, since she had been his only correspondence. She had blushed at the error and very nicely corrected him. Thornfield Hall was in fact owned by a Mr. Holmes, who she said was never at home and if he was it was for very brief bits of time.

 

John’s student, Hamish Adler, was Mr. Holmes’s Ward. John laughed a bit at the name. How odd was it that his student’s first name would be his middle name. Hamish had gone to bed by the time John had gotten to the house the night before so he hadn’t been able to meet him.

 

John had breakfast with Mrs. Hudson who informed John that Hamish was French and spoke little English. His maid Anthea who he had arrived with him spoke no English at all.

 

John supposed his first task would be to teach Hamish English so he could communicate better with the rest of the house.

 

After breakfast and a quick tour of the house, Mrs. Hudson led John to Hamish’s schoolroom. It was a small room on the second floor furnished with two tables, a bookcase full of books suited for a child and for teaching, a globe, and a scattering of toys lying in one corner.

 

A boy who looked about six was sitting on a bench seat by a large window overlooking the grounds. A young woman sat next to him silently watching the door. She was pretty, dressed all in black, her auburn hair pulled back into a bun. She wore a severe expression that seemed to say ‘I have no need to talk to you.’ Mrs. Hudson introduced Anthea who nodded at John.

 

Hamish reached out a small hand to him. “ _Please sir, tell me you speak French_.”

 

John took the hand in his own and gave it a soft squeeze. “ _Yes, but it will be my job to teach you to speak English_.”

 

The boy sighed and even Anthea looked relieved. John understood later he was the only other person in the house that spoke French so Hamish and his maid had had a difficult time before he arrived.

 

John studied Hamish who by all accounts was a very beautiful child. He was tall for his age, slim and tan with bright rosy cheeks. He had brown hair that curled slightly around his face. His eyes were hazel and his face was what you could only call defined.

 

He smiled at John and John smiled back. He said he was talented in singing so Mrs. Hudson and John sat down and listened to him.

 

John was glad the old woman could not understand the lyrics of the song. She seemed like a plain woman of strong morals. After the song ended and Hamish asked if they wanted another John said no they had real work to do and Mrs. Hudson left never knowing what scandalous things had passed lips so young.

 

 

John understood later from the way Hamish talked about his mother when he brought the subject up at Mrs. Hudson’s request that she must have been a fallen woman.

 

John’s first three months at Thornfield Hall passed without any excitement. John set a lesson plan for Hamish to follow. They focused in English, basic piano, and history, and for fun John had Hamish keep a plant journal and taught him about the native plants and animals.

 

Along with teaching Hamish John invited Anthea to the English lessons. She would often draw her chair near but not to the table and would sit without speaking. For a while John though she wasn’t taking it in until he overheard her talking to a maid in broken English.

 

John’s only friend in the house was Mrs. Hudson. He befriended her because there was no one else. He had lost most of his friends from his old life in the war and going to town often with his leg was hard and the servants saw him as above them.

 

When John wasn’t teaching or having tea with Mrs. Hudson he spent his time in the library. It seemed like he was the only one who used it. He found medical textbooks and books on plants. Some of the books he shared with Hamish who he soon discovered would not read unless forced.

 

In three months John sent no letters and received none in return. This was something Mrs. Hudson didn’t miss. She also didn’t miss the fact that he had taken to walking the property as much as he could in the evening.

 

John was lonely; he could feel it. He had never been so isolated, so apart from people. There had always been voices and groups of people to deal with. He thought getting away would be better for his health but instead he was losing his appetite and not sleeping for fear of waking up in a fit of another nightmare.

 

 

John had a restless night of sleep the night before and after finishing lessons with Hamish. He tried to lie down only to hear his aunt’s voice in his head over and over.

 

‘You have bad blood in you John Watson... you are far too passionate. You have to be corrected!’

 

He was angry that he couldn’t even shut his eyes without being plagued by old dreams. John took to walking through the house.

 

Like many old houses, Thornfield had it own sounds that if you didn’t hear them every day you might jump at them. When John heard what sounded like a scream then laughter he had to remind himself not to look for the sound that time, even if it frayed his nerves and fueled his nightmares.

 

Mrs. Pool, one of the maids was a bit mad, for some reason the Lord wouldn’t sack her. She often did her work away from the others so she didn’t disturb them. John supposed the Lord felt bad for her, though he didn’t have to deal with her screaming day in and day out.

 

John reached a large picture window and looked out. He could see for what seemed like forever. He remembered a time when he could have walked that distance, when it didn’t seemed that far. Now he became trapped in a house because his damn leg wouldn’t work right.

 

“John?”

 

He turned to see Mrs. Hudson watching him.

 

“Are you alright dear?”

 

“I’m fine, I was just looking at the view.”

 

She watched him her eyes searching for something. “I was going to ask you if you wanted tea but I have a feeling a walk would do you better. Could you post some letters for me?”

 

“Yes, yes that would be fine.”

 

John walked the path across the property to the main road trying not to think about the stories the maid he’d had as a child when he’d still lived with his aunt used to tell him. John’s limp made his walking slow which gave his imagination time to run wild. When he’d been bad as a child, who in the judgment of his aunt was always he had been told the story of the Gytrash, a black dog that hunted lonely roads for travelers.

 

As he came to the main road he paused to catch his breath. He heard what had to be a dog barking; from out of the mist suddenly a dog ran at him. John froze, his eyes following after the dog as it ran towards him, but the dog passed him as if he hadn’t seen him.

 

John sighed and turned to continue walking when heard a horse and looked to see a huge black horse rearing up as John stumbled back dropping his cane. The horse bucked off his rider in fright, the man swearing as he fell. The horse landed back on all fours and trotted a few feet away and started drinking out of a puddle.

 

The man on the ground grumbled and called Gladstone twice and tried to get up. John reached around himself realizing he had dropped his cane and picked it up.

 

“Are you alright? Can I help you?” John called edging his way closer to the man.

 

The man stopped moving and turned to look at John.

 

“You have come to frighten me, it has worked on my horse but I am not so easily frightened, spirit.”

 

“Excuse me? Are you in need of medical treatment? I have training.” John was beginning to wonder if the man was mad and if he had better get away from him as quickly as possible.

 

“You can bring me my horse.” The man moved into his side wincing and then moving into a sitting position.

 

John nodded and walked over to the horse and tried to grab the reins but the horse jerked its head away every time.

 

“Stop,” the man bellowed, “you had better come get me and bring me to the horse. It knows what you are.”

 

John walked over to the man and helped him up. It was painful but once John had his arms around his shoulder it was better.

 

“What exactly am I?” John asked, curious of the answer. John and the man limped together towards the horse that was still content to drink from the puddle.

 

“You’re a forest sprite, an imp, an elf.” The man took hold of the horse and handed John the reins. “You hang about the roads trying to bewitch travelers.”

 

“No,” John said almost laughing”, “sad truth is they're all gone. Your land is neither wild nor savage enough.” The man looked at John as if John was mad, then he smiled at him. “I’m a tutor. I live at Thornfield Hall. If you let me take you there, I could have a look at your head and make sure you didn’t hit it when you fell.”

 

The man ascended his horse and took back the reins. “It is my ankle I hurt, spirit, not my head and I’ll go nowhere with you.” He looked John up and down. “Go and be a good soldier and post those letters and get home before the witching hour ends for your kind.”

 

He kicked his horse’s sides, disappearing into the mist as if he had never been there. John watched the road for a moment longer wondering what else was to befall him. His left hand was still outstretched where he had held the reins. He noticed that for the first time in a long time it was not shaking.

 

Vicar Stackhouse had said the shaking was due to memories of the war and stress but the encounter had been the most stressful thing to happen to him in a long time and his hand was still.

 

John decided to finish his task and get back to Thornfield Hall before anything else jumped out of the mist at him.


	2. Chapter 2

The incident had occurred and was gone. It had been an event of no romance, no interest of his senses; yet it marked a change in a single hour of a monotonous life. John walked to the rest of the way to Hay in a daze. He put the letters in the letter-box and headed back, still turning the road confrontation over in his head.

 

When he reached Thornfield he didn’t want to re-enter. To pass its threshold was to return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the dark staircase, to seek his own lonely room. He lingered at the gates and on the lawn, pacing backwards and forwards on the pavement till it grew dark. Cold and tired, he ultimately relented and headed for the door.

 

When John finally entered the Hall he saw the whole place had come alive. Servants rushing about had replaced the quiet that often descended in the evenings. Mrs. Hudson called to him, asking him to change his clothing.

 

“What for?”

 

“The master has arrived, we always dress up in the evening when the master is in the house.”

 

“All my clothing is the same.” He said. She looked at him and his plain suit.

 

“You must have one that’s better.” She left before he could respond.

 

He headed to his room to change.

 

One of the servants informed John that when he had changed he could join the others in the drawing room. He was thankful for the information as he normally took tea in Mrs. Hudson’s parlor.

 

As he limped towards the door of the drawing room, fidgeting in his nicer clothing, he could hear Hamish talking animatedly through the door. It was an odd mixture of French and English but at least the child was trying. John heard Mrs. Hudson inquire after his ankle and John stopped.

 

A deep baritone voice answered her that a spirit had frightened his horse while riding and the animal had thrown him off. There was a pause and then he called a little louder that Hamish ought to open the door to the study to let the spirit in, it had followed him home.

 

John heard the sound of footsteps and the door opened before him to reveal Hamish’s expectant face.

 

“ _It is only Monsieur Watson_.” Hamish turned back to the room looking dejected.

 

“That’s what he wants you to think.”

 

Mrs. Hudson looked at the three men confusedly, than gestured for John to enter the room.

 

The master had his back to John but John knew who he was. As he rounded the chair he saw the face that the mist obscured back on the road.

 

Mr. Holmes had dark brown, almost black curly hair, his eyes were a light blue but as the firelight shifted they changed to green, so John couldn’t be sure. John had noticed on the road that he stood most likely about six feet tall, and despite the fact that he had been traveling on horseback for at least a day, his skin was pale white. He looked lean but also had a look of strength about him, his facial features defined, his cheekbones sharp. He was not what you would call handsome but he had a charm about him in the way he looked at you.

 

John and Mr. Holmes stared at each other for a full minute without saying a word. It was Hamish who broke the silence as he asked Mrs. Hudson for a treat.

 

John sighed, feeling as if someone freed him from a trap. Mr. Holmes gestured to the chair across from him, and he sat down and waited for the other man to speak.

 

Mr. Holmes sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.

 

“You’ve taken great pains with Hamish, he’s not bright or talented but in the three months you’ve been here he’s improved a great deal.” Mr. Holmes stared at the fire closing his eyes.

 

“What is an ex soldier doing in the middle of nowhere as a tutor?” He turned back to John, his eyes boring into him.

 

John opened his mouth to speak but Mr. Holmes held up his hand to stop him.

 

“You were born into a well to do family but there was financial trouble and they sent you away to save money. Bart’s School for Boys, you studied there until you got drafted into the war.” He paused, his eyes scanning over John. “You mentioned having medical training but you didn’t say you were a doctor, so you got assigned to the medical group at least a few years. You’re not one to brag about your skill set so you wouldn’t have offered me help if you didn’t actually know what you were doing. You were eventually sent to the front, most likely due to the fact that they were running out of men. You didn’t last very long. Got shot, left shoulder. You also injured your leg, not enough to have it still be bothering you so that bit is in your head,” his eyes widened “but you knew that already.”

 

Mr. Holmes’s eyes gleamed as he laid John’s life out in front of him. “So they forced you home after you got injured and you had no home to go back to. What else could you do but take a job as a tutor, even if it is slowly driving you mad?”

 

“Why do you say it’s driving me mad?” John interrupted holding his back as straight as possible to show he wasn’t intimidated.

 

“The boredom, you’re not used to quiet. You thought it would be helpful but now you realize it’s the worse things possible.”

 

John just stared at him.

 

“Did I get anything wrong?”

 

John smiled. “My parents were poor. My mother married for love and ruined herself. When my parents died, my well to do aunt took me in. She raised me for my first six years and when she got tired of me she sent me to school.” John looked down at his cane. “Everything else was perfect. It really was amazing.”

 

John looked up and saw a look of surprise on Mr. Holmes face.

 

“That’s not what people normally say.”

 

“What do people normally say?”

 

“Bugger off.”

 

Mr. Holmes smiled if only for a second and John returned it.

 

“Still, I did get a bit wrong. Not really wrong. You did have well to do family, I just didn’t know…” He trailed off, staring at the fire.

 

“Mr. Holmes-“

 

“Sherlock, please I insist you call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is what the servants called my brother.” He shuddered. “I don’t like thinking about him.”

 

“Very well,” John paused, having trouble speaking to his employer so causally.

 

“I’ll call you John. Then we’ll be on equal footing.” Sherlock smirked at him.

 

John sighed. “Very well.”

 

They stared at each other again and John felt like a great wolf was cornering him.

 

“Do you think me handsome, John?” Sherlock asked raising his eyebrows.

 

“No.” John regretted the word as soon as it left his mouth.

 

Sherlock smiled at him.

 

“You are not unattractive but…” John could not finish. He was too embarrassed by the whole thing.

 

Sherlock smiled. “If I was to tell you I was worth twenty thousand pounds a year, would my looks suddenly transform?”

 

“No.” John tilted his head to the side. “What does your wealth have to do with it?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

 

“What I should have said is that beauty is of little consequence. It is the soul we should think about. That’s where a person’s true character lies.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes darkened.

 

“Well, then you won’t feel insulted if I call you plain.”

 

John said nothing.

 

“You admit with your short stature and short hair of a non descript color you are the very definition of plain?”

 

John nodded.

 

Sherlock glared at John. “You won’t frighten me, spirit, they might not know what you are but the veil is no longer over my eyes.”

 

John glared standing up as quickly as his leg would let him.

 

“You might enjoy talking about such nonsense but I for one do not, goodnight.” John heard laughter behind him and felt his cheeks burn. Sherlock’s words reminded of his childhood when his cousins had used him for sport.

 

 

John woke early the next morning as exhausted as he had been the night before. He pulled himself out of bed and sat himself at the small desk below the window overlooking the garden. Sitting on it was the latest volume of the series of journals he had kept since he was ten. He opened the leather book moving the pages past writing and drawing he had done until he came to the first blank page. He tried to find the words to describe his employer.

 

The next several days passed like they always did. John taught Hamish during the day and spent his evenings reading, except he was now on orders to spend at least an hour of his time in the sitting room. Hamish became difficult to keep focused during the day. Sherlock had visitors coming in to ask about parish business and Hamish wanted to be down in the library with them.

 

John finally had to warn Hamish that if he didn’t get his work for the day done, John would force him to take tea alone in his room with Anthea instead of getting to join the adults.

 

In the evenings, during tea, Sherlock would sit in his armchair insulting Mrs. Hudson, his dead brother, Hamish and himself. John could see there was no love for Hamish and that the anger was for the mother. The woman, as Sherlock called her, never referring to her by name.

 

From what John could tell, Hamish’s mother had been an opera singer. Sherlock had met her in Paris and had set her up in a flat when he was very young. He had returned one night to find her with a woman. They were laughing at how stupid Sherlock was to not be able to tell she was only using him for his money. Sherlock had thrown her and her girlfriend out.

 

Seven years later he received a letter that he was a father and that the woman was dead.

 

“Look at that child John and tell me if you think he’s mine. Anyways we never got that far, she didn’t like me like that. I thought it was charming her keeping me waiting, I didn’t realize until too late it was because I was the wrong gender.”

 

John looked at Hamish, who was playing with Mrs. Hudson with two of his wax dolls and his heart lurched. He felt a kinship to the child suddenly realizing how unwanted and alone he was. “Hamish is not answerable for his mother, I have regard for him and now that I know that he is, in a sense, parentless; I shall cling to him closer then before.”

 

Sherlock had given him an odd look, but had, in the end, smiled before waving him away to end the conversation.

 

John looked at his employer. A man who at times exuded selfishness and yet he had taken in a child he wasn’t even related to and didn’t even like. He realized that behind his cold exterior, there was a kind heart.

 

 

One afternoon, John limped into the drawing room for tea to find Sherlock looking through a stack of papers. As he came closer he realized they were his drawings he keeps in Hamish’s classroom.

 

Sherlock gestured to the seat across from him, which John took. They were silent for a few minutes.  

 

“Hamish brought these to me earlier. He thought they would amuse me. He likes them.”

 

John said nothing.

 

“He says you claim to have drawn them yourself without any aid.”

 

“I did.” John said sharply.

 

“That pricked your pride.” Sherlock smiled at him and flipped to the next page. He surveyed the image for a minute. “Where did you get your copies?”

 

“Out of my head.” John said as calmly as possible.

 

“That head I see now on your shoulders?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” He looked at John expectantly.

 

“I get absorbed in it, sir. Yes, I was happy. To paint is one of the keenest pleasures I know.”

 

“That’s not saying much.” Sherlock looked at him like he was making a joke at John’s expense. “Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few.” He closed the portfolio and stared at John.

 

“Did they teach you to draw fanciful pictures at Bart’s?”

 

“No sir.” John looked at his lap. How often had he gotten in trouble for his drawing before Vicar Stamford had taken over the post of headmaster?

 

“Vicar Stamford was the man in charge of Bart’s, last I heard?”

 

“The last six years. Before that, it was a man by the name of Anderson. He first came under fire when influenza wiped out half the school, then again when he left his wife for one of the teachers, Miss Donovan. Everyone hated him. He starved and beat us when he felt like it. He refused to buy supplies for the school and lavished Miss. Donovan with gifts. We all knew of the affair for years before he got caught but were too afraid to say anything.”

 

“He sounds like a brute.” Sherlock scoffed.

 

“He was a coward with a long whip.” John shrugged. Sherlock gave him a look that told John he was impressed with his answer.

 

 

John stood in the library reading a medical textbook when he heard a bang. The sound started him so much he dropped the book. Silence filled the house but John knew something wasn’t right.

 

He ran out of the room forgetting he has left his cane sitting against a table. He rushed out of the house into the garden where he could hear Sherlock’s dog Gladstone barking.

 

The great black dog rushed at John, jumping around him in frenzy before leading him to where Sherlock was laying trapped under a large branch. Sherlock was on his back but awake and struggling to push the branch off himself.

 

“What happened?” John reaches for one end of the branch and began to pull.

 

Sherlock winced but didn’t tell him to stop.

 

“Gardening.” Sherlock muttered.

 

John noted the shotgun on the ground. “Shot the tree?”

 

Sherlock glowered at him as they move the branch slowly off him. When the branch was safely off him, Sherlock fell onto his back and breathed harshly for a few moments.

 

“If you need a shooting lesson, all you have to do is ask.” John grinned, his breath coming out heavy from the exercise.

 

Sherlock looked at him and then his eyes wandered to his right hand. He smiled.

 

“Did you notice that you ran here without the assistance of your cane?” Sherlock pulled himself up wincing as he stood.

 

John looked down then back at Sherlock.

 

“I didn’t plan this John. I should have.” He grinned again and John felt warmth inside him he had thought long dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charity schools were places where boys and girls where sent by parents who wouldn't pay or could only pay very little for there children's education. they children were taught just enough to get jobs when they were older and lived very hard lives. Many rich people would think highly of themselves for giving to a charity school even if they never knew how terribly the children were treated.  
> In the original book Jane comes from a very bad school and many of the children die when influenza strikes because the director has been starving them. All the money has been going to keep his wife and children in style. After at least 1/3 of the school dies he is reigned in and is ordered to take better care of the school. A bored is put in charge of the money so the children are no longer starving.


	3. Chapter 3

John turned his thoughts to the consideration of his masters, manners to himself. The confidence he had thought fit peacefully in him seemed a tribute to his discretion. Sherlock’s demeanor had for some weeks been more considerate and warm than at first. John never seemed in his way; Sherlock no longer suddenly insulted him in the middle of their conversations anymore. 

 

When John meet him unexpectedly in a corridor or in the library fetching new books for Hamish, the encounter seemed welcome. Sherlock always had a word and sometimes a smile. When summoned by formal invitation to Sherlock’s presence, John felt he suddenly possessed the power to amuse him and the evening conference felt like they were sought as much for Sherlock’s pleasure as for John’s benefit.

 

Now that John no longer needed his cane, he was making his way around the large house much easier. Sherlock was also demanding a lot more of his time. 

 

Slowly the part of John’s evening he would have spent alone was being eaten away by Sherlock. Sometimes the man just lay on the sofa in the library while John read by the fire, if John tried to leave Sherlock would call him back into the room.

 

“Come speak to me John, the fact is I’d like to draw you out. You have the look of another world about you.” 

 

John sat as bidded in the chair across from Sherlock and waited. 

 

“I don’t wish to treat you as inferior.” Sherlock said as if reading in John’s body language that he obeyed because he felt he must.

 

“Yet you commend me to speak.” John said in a teasing voice.

 

“You’re hurt by my tone of command.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at John.

 

“There are few masters who would inquire whether their paid subordinates were hurt by their commands.”

 

“Paid subordinate.” Sherlock said roughly. “I had forgotten the salary. Well, on that mercenary ground will you consent to speak to me as my equal? Without thinking that the request derives from insolence.”

 

“I have never mistaken informality for insolence sir. One I rather like the other, nothing freeborn should ever submit themselves to.” John felt himself pulling his back straight to feel less intimidated. 

 

Sherlock gave him a smug look and opened his mouth to speak.

 

“Even for a salary.” John added.

 

“The most freeborn thing would submit to anything for a salary.” Sherlock paused, apprising John. “But I mentally shake hands with you for your answer.”

 

Sherlock was incredibly curious about John’s life. He asked questions about what work he had done as a medic, his time at the front and what life at Bart’s had been like.

 

“I envy you.” Sherlock said one night from his place by the window in the library. He lowered his violin from his chin and set it on the table next to him.

 

Earlier in the evening Sherlock had demanded John’s attention and had dragged him away from the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson and Hamish knew well enough not to follow them. If Sherlock went into the library it meant he wanted to be alone. These days alone often meant John sitting quietly in the background.

 

John had recounted another story from his time at the front, mostly talking about his medical studies. Sherlock seemed to enjoy those stories. Sherlock had picked up his violin and played softly so he didn’t cover John’s voice. His interruption had come from nowhere and John was at a loss as to what to do.

 

“You envy what?” He finally asked.

 

“Your openness; your unpolluted mind. When I was your age, fate dealt me a blow.” He turned to face John and stalked towards him sitting on the other end of the sofa. “Since happiness is denied me I have the right to get pleasure instead.”

 

Sherlock started at his hands, which were balled into fists. “I will get it, cost what it may.”

 

“Then you will degenerate more.” John felt his heart in his throat beating so fast he could hardly breathe.

 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock looked at him, his eyes pleading with him to understand. “If the pleasure I was seeking was sweet and fresh if it was an inspiration if it wore the robes of an angel of light. What then?”

 

“To speak truth I don’t understand. I fear the conversation has gone out of my depth.”

 

“You’re afraid of me.” Sherlock planted one of his hands on the sofa between them. It took all John had not to move away from it.

 

“I’m not,” said John as calmly as he could. “I just have no wish to talk of nonsense.”

 

Sherlock watched him for a while then settled back into his side of the sofa. “Don’t you ever laugh, John? Maybe rarely for you’re not naturally austere any more then I’m naturally vicious.” Sherlock smiled at John and steepled his fingers under his chin.

 

“I can see in you the glance of a curious sort of bird wrapped tight in a cage; vivid, restless, captive.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Were it put free it would soar cloud high.”

 

\--

 

John lay in bed while sleep evaded him. He was trying not to think of Sherlock and the conversation they had in the library. He had read till his eyes had grown so tired they couldn’t stay open and had fallen on his bed in just his trousers having taken his shirt off to cool himself down.

 

Sleep was just starting to overtake him when John started awake on hearing a vague murmur, a peculiar and lugubrious one, which sounded, he thought, just above. He suddenly wished he had kept his candle burning: the night was dark; and his spirits were depressed. John rose and sat on the edge of his bed, listening. Laughter down the hall caught his attention. His mind went straight to mad Grace Pool. He tried to ignore it, but something felt wrong about it so he found the thin dressing gown he owned and lit the candle by the door.

 

Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the hall towards the third story staircase; he heard it open and close, then all was still.

 

To afraid to remain alone John decided he would head to Hamish’s room and spend the rest of the night tucked in with the boy. It was only when he was in the hall that he realized that the cord for his dressing gown was not with him. John used his hand to hold the fabric closed and made his way down the hall.

 

As he neared Sherlock’s bedroom he noticed smoke in the hall and became aware of a strong smell of something burning. John moved quickly throwing Sherlock’s door open. The smoke rushed at him like a cloud. He thought no more of Hamish or going back to bed. Tongues of flame darted around: Sherlock’s bed and the bed curtains were on fire. In the middle of the blaze and smoke, Sherlock was stretched motionless, in a deep sleep.

 

John set his candle down and yelled for Sherlock to wake up, the smoke had stupefied him and he didn’t respond. Not a moment could be lost; the sheets were kindling. John called again as he rushed to Sherlock’s dressing table and found both his basin and the jug next to it full. He breathed a sigh of relief, picking up first the basin, then the jug to deluge the fire, the bed and it’s occupant. He then picked up a flower vase from a side table dousing the curtains.

 

Whether it was the shouting or the water striking him, Sherlock finally woke. He looked around himself and the half burnt bed he was sitting in.

 

“Get up, sir.” John called again, desperation heavy in his voice.

 

“Is that John Watson?” Sherlock called looking at him thought the smoke. “In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that John Watson? What have you done with me, witch sorcerer?”

 

“Help me put the last of the fire out.”

 

John went over to the bed curtain and Sherlock joined him. The two of them pulled the heavy velvet curtain surrounding the bed off its hooks and stamped their feet on it until the last of the fire was out. 

 

Silence filled the room, leaving behind only the sound of heavy breathing.

 

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Sherlock was dressed in only his nightshirt and John in only his trousers, his dressing gown hanging off his shoulders with the lack of cord to bind it.

 

Sherlock’s eyes wandered to John’s chest and John realized his scar was showing. He quickly pulled his dressing gown up around himself and starred at the floor.

 

“Are you hurt?” Sherlock moved away looking for his trousers.

 

“No sir. Sherlock.” John corrected himself. “I heard laughing in the hall. It sat wrong with me.”

 

“So you went looking?”

 

John nodded. He watched Sherlock open a window to let the smoke out. Then Sherlock stepped closer to him, holding his own winter dressing gown in his hands. He wrapped it around John’s shoulders and pulled it closed across his chest.

 

“I have to check something, you stay here until I return.”

 

John nodded but Sherlock didn’t move. John looked up at him and was surprised by the intense look he saw there. Sherlock finally moved away leaving John alone.

John was woken close to dawn. He had sat himself in the chair by the fire place to keep warm and had accidentally fallen asleep. Sherlock was standing over him, watching him.

 

John stood shedding the dressing gown Sherlock had lent him.

 

“It’s settled.”

 

John nodded even though he didn’t know what that really meant, then he turned to leave.

 

“It’s that how you’d leave me John?”

 

John turned back to Sherlock and waited.

 

“John, fire is a horrible death. You just saved my life and you would part with me like strangers?”

 

“What would you have me do then?” John was surprised he had found his voice considering how tense he was.

 

Sherlock held out his hand in front of himself and John took it. Sherlock pulled him a step closer; he could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face. His grip on John’s hand was firm but not painful. Slowly his fingers slid up John’s wrist and began tracing shapes.

 

John shivered.

 

“I knew you would do me good the first time I met you. I saw it in your eyes when we first met. Your expression did not strike my very innermost being for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies.” Sherlock stared at John his eyes boring into him as if he could read John’s soul. “I knew I would not mind being in your debt.”

 

“There is no debt.” John restlessly tried to move away.

 

“Why are you trying to leave?” Sherlock sounded hurt and tried to edge closer.

 

“I’m cold.” It was only a half lie. John was cold but he was also holding himself back so he didn’t do something stupid.

 

A small smile played across Sherlock’s lips. “Of course, and we agreed that you would never be cold again.”

 

A forgotten conversation about John’s past and its lack of warmth flooded John’s mind. Sherlock had seemed quite disturbed by the fact that John was so unused to sitting by a fire and had made an off the hand comment about John never being cold again. John hadn’t thought much about it, until now.

 

Sherlock reached for his dressing gown and wrapped it around John’s shoulders again, pulling John even closer then he was before. John resisted the temptation to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest. When he looks up, there was a moment when it seemed Sherlock was going to kiss him. Part of John was hoping he would while the other was screaming at himself to get out the room before anything happened.  
Sherlock released him and John floated out of the room only half aware of what he was doing.

 

\--

 

John was nervous the next day. He both wished and feared to see Mr. Holmes after what had happened the night before. During the early part of the morning, he momentarily expected his coming: he wasn’t in the frequent habit of entering the school-room; but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, John had the impression he was sure to visit that day. 

 

The servants were busy fixing Sherlock’s bed so John spent teatime with Hamish and Anthea. Their English was coming on very well and Anthea was more willing to talk to him these days. She never talked about her past, only about her life in England as if her life as started that day and nothing before mattered. John had gathered from Hamish that Anthea had traveled with him from Paris, and that he knew nothing of her life from before that either. 

 

She had shown up at the school his mother had placed him in with a letter from Monsieur Holmes telling him that his mother was dead and that he was moving to England. It was a bit of a shock for the poor child but he had appreciated that Anthea had been French.

 

John was looking at the time on his pocket watch when Hamish sighed and told Anthea he was sad that Monsieur Holmes had left. John looked at the two of them and inquired as to what Hamish had meant.

 

Anthea told him that just after breakfast, Monsieur Holmes had left for his friend’s Monsieur Ashton’s house. Apparently a lady by the name of Hooper was staying there. Madam Hudson said Mademoiselle Hooper was a lady of noble birth and many talents. She wouldn’t be surprised if Monsieur Holmes didn’t propose to her. The only reason he hadn’t in the past was because she lacked a fortune.  
John felt ill. He knew he shouldn’t but he did. Of course Sherlock would want someone like this Miss Hooper. She would be young, beautiful, and able to give him an heir. 

 

What could John offer him?

 

At twenty his body was covered in scars and his sleep was filled with nightmares. He was a no one. As he left the room he told himself that over and over and again. ‘I am no one’. For the next three weeks it became a mantra whenever his mind started to imagine things could be different.

 

Mrs. Hudson didn’t help the sick feeling inside John. Every time they sat down together she went on and on about Miss Hooper’s beauty, how well matched Sherlock and she were together and how beautifully they sang together.

 

John had heard Sherlock playing his violin in the middle of the night, he had even played for John in the library when it was just the two of them a few times but he had never known the man could sing. It seemed everyone knew Sherlock better than John did.

 

The tremor in John’s hand returned, as did his limp. It was Hamish who noticed the tremor first. John had been correcting his work when the boy had asked if he felt ill. John had looked down at his hand and realized why he was being asked. His limp wasn’t bad enough so far that he needed his cane but enough that Mrs. Hudson and the staff noticed the change in him. It was clear though that his depression had set back in.


	4. Chapter 4

A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Holmes, as John had reminded himself to call him so he didn’t daydream that he could be anything more than an employ to the man. Ten days and still he hadn’t returned. Mrs. Hudson said she would not be surprised if he were to go straight to London, and then the continent and not show his face for another year. When John heard this, he felt a strange chill and feeling in his heart. He realized he was experiencing a sickness of disappointment. He knew he must rally his wits, and recollect his principles. He reminded himself he was no one to Mr. Holmes and it calmed him.

 

When word did come from Mr. Holmes after three weeks of absence, it seemed he was bringing the whole party with him back to Thornfield Hall. The house was in an uproar as extra staff was gathered and the whole house was cleaned. John did what he could to help, finding comfort in taking and giving orders.

 

John did his best not to think about the fact that Miss Hooper would be among the group and that he might have to watch Sherlock woo her in front of him.

 

John watched with Hamish and Anthea as the guests arrived. They looked so fine stepping out of their carriages. He could tell whom Miss Hooper was right away by the fact that Sherlock helped her out of her carriage, taking her arm and leading her into the house. John watched Sherlock’s dark form walking in his impressive black cloak as he lead the small woman in pale pink towards the house. She had warm brown hair and a cheerful smile. John wanted to hate her but he couldn’t. She looked like an angel floating in on the wind.

 

Hamish stood next to him commenting on all the clothing. He really was a vain child. It had to be his mother’s fault. She had raised him to praise wealth over love. John stepped away from the window and called Hamish to follow.

 

  
As John made his way to his room after he had finished his lessons with Hamish, Mrs. Hudson caught him and told him he was to bring Hamish to the drawing room after dinner. John tried to refuse but she told him if he wasn’t there the master had said he would come to his room and fetch him. Afraid of being caught alone with Mr. Holmes, John agreed.

 

After dinner, shut away from the main party, John and Hamish set out for the drawing room. John found a sofa off to the side, slighty obscured by a screen. He sat there with a heavy heart, not wanting to see what was going to happen. Hamish, on the other hand, was bouncing with energy. He had put on his finest suit and had his hair styled just for the evening. As the room filled, it was hard for John to keep a grip on him. 

 

John lost the battle eventually and Hamish walked into the circle of adults believing himself so beautiful they wouldn’t be able to resist him.

 

A few conversations continued as he waltzed among them, doing his best to look angelic, but one woman, a Mrs. Hooper, showed her dislike of having the child in the room, let alone the house. John was spotted behind his screen and the conversation turned to how deplorable tutors were.

 

Mr. Holmes egged them on till John had been insulted more than he could stand. Holmes paid no heed to the fact he might be hurting Hamish or John’s feelings. Hamish had found two ladies who seemed to like him and was talking in rapid French with them.

 

Holmes was even more handsome than John remembered though he knew it was his fondness for his employer that made him so. He smiled softly at Mrs. Hooper and at her daughters laughing a full bellied at a particularly witty turn of phrase.

 

John’s attention shifted away to Miss. Hooper who was chatting with another lady. She was small and fine, her white and purple dress the picture of loveliness. But as John listened to her conversation he realized her beauty might be skin deep. She was speaking on the topic of botany and when the woman next to her gave away her inexperience on the topic she leaned over to her mother and told her she thought the lady was a simpleton in French.

 

John saw no need to stay. He would let Anthea know she would need to come get Hamish then he would go to bed. John stood and moved slowly and quietly out of the room. He was partway down the hall when he realized he was being followed.

 

“John.”

 

John stopped but didn’t turn. He could feel Mr. Holmes staring at his back. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

 

“Why did you leave the room? Why didn’t you come and speak to me?”

 

John wanted to turn the question on him but decided not to take that liberty. “You seemed occupied.” John turned to look at Mr. Holmes who stood several feet away from him.

 

“You could have at least inquired as to how I was.” Mr. Holmes stepped closer. “We haven’t seen each other in weeks.”

 

“Are you well?” John looked at the floor just so he didn’t have to look directly at him.

 

“I am, are you? You look pale.”

 

John nodded. “I am fine.”

 

“Fine.” Mr. Holmes repeated in a disbelieving tone, his eyes wandering over John’s body. “Why are you leaving so early?”

 

“I’m tired.” John looked at the floor again, studying the pattern in the carpet.

 

“What’s happened, John? You seem depressed. About what?”

 

“Nothing, I assure you, I’m fine.”

 

John looked up enough to see Mr. Holmes’s mouth open, as if he was going to speak.

 

“I deduce you are depressed; so much that a few more minutes would bring tears to your eyes. Look, there they are.”

 

John took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

 

“If I had time and was not in mortal dread of some prattling servant passing, I would know what is bothering you.” He paused his face softening into a sad smile. “Tonight you’re excused, but I expect you to bring Hamish to the drawing room every evening after dinner. Goodnight, my- ” Then he turned away and headed back into the drawing room.

 

John stayed where he was, breathing. From the drawing room he heard a woman call to Holmes to sing with her. He agreed and the piano started. A soft woman’s voice started growing in strength then Holmes joined in.

 

Miss Hooper was all John would think about, the sound of them singing together sounded so perfect it hurt more than he could bear, he rushed away almost tripping over his bad leg on the stairs.

 

\---------

 

Two days later the men set up shooting in the yard. Hamish had been too fascinated by it to pay attention to his lessons so John had taken him down to see what was going on. It was a bit embarrassing to watch them shot and miss over and over. They all fancied themselves quite good but John knew one day in the field and they would be dead. 

 

Holmes saw them coming and called out to John. John left Hamish with Anthea and headed over to him.

 

“You promised me a shooting lesson.” Holmes looked smug as if he expected John to fail. The other gentlemen had equally smug expressions as they watched the exchange.

 

John took the gun, checked it, loaded it and shot the first bird that crossed his line of sight without having the gun up an extended length of time. Then he handed the gun back to Holmes nodded and limped back to Hamish who was clapping.

 

He passed Miss Hooper who from the little he’d seen of her he had attained was an arrogant young woman with an ambitious mother willing to do anything to get her children married off the ‘right’ people.

 

Miss Hooper had a sour expression on her face as John passed, and muttered something about John being Holmes’s latest plaything.

 

He supposed what she meant was, John was a phase. Something to entertain Holmes for a while, Miss Hooper believed she was staying around on a more permanent basis.

 

The evidence did stack up in her favor. Since returning Mr. Holmes had not once called John to the library to entertain him though John had heard him pacing the floors when he passed. They no longer met in the halls and chatted nor did he come to the classroom to watch from the doorway.

 

On the second evening, the party had played charades and Mr. Holmes had claimed Miss Hooper for his team. The two had acted out a wedding to the smiling crowd. When their turn was over, the two has sat together on a couch and leaned their heads together, whispering.

 

John had felt so heartsick watching them that he had had to leave the room. He knew then that he loved Mr. Holmes, and endeavored to go to his grave never speaking of it to anyone.

 

John could not un-love Holmes even though he was sure he would marry Miss Hooper. John read daily in her proud security of Holmes’s intentions towards her. He also witnessed hourly in Holmes a style of courtship of choosing rather to be sought then to seek.

 

Despite all John saw he wasn’t jealous, the pain he suffered couldn’t be explained by that word. It was hard to be jealous of Miss Hooper, she was too inferior to excite the feeling. She was showy but not genuine: she was beautiful but unoriginal. All her conversation was repeated sayings from books and borrowed opinions.

 

John knew Holmes would marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons. John felt Holmes had not given her his love, and that she was ill adapt to win it. Try as she might, she could not charm him.

 

\---------

 

The next day Mr. Holmes left the house on business, leaving his guest restless. John held Hamish in his lessons as long as he could then let him join the adults. John sat himself off to the side and read. He had no desire to spend time with Mr. Holmes’s guest, but two of the women had taken a liking to Hamish and enjoyed having him with the party, which meant John had to endure them. 

 

In the early evening, a drifter woman came to the house and asked to read fortunes. The ladies jumped at the chance and one by one men and women descended the stairs to have their fortunes told. When the old porter, Dimlock, came to him and told him it was his turn and that the drifter would not leave until he had gone. John smiled and followed the old man down the stairs into the room they had set aside for the women.

 

The drifter was not what John had expected. There was nothing frightening about her. She looked like every other old woman he’d met except that her clothing was like something out of a book.

 

She smiled at him. “You’re not afraid.”

 

“You’re not very frightening.”

 

She smiled. “You’re very confident for someone who has never loved, for someone who’s only ever had one true friend.” She paused, staring at John. “He was snatched away prematurely.”

 

John recalled the scarlet fever outbreak at his school, how it killed a third of the student including Mark Morstan. John remembers the feeling of Mark, cold in his arms when he woke with him dead next to him.

 

He supposed the only good thing that came out of the outbreak was that the owner of the school realized that Mr. Anderson, the headmaster, was not properly taking care of the students. Instead of using the money on food and coal he was buying his wife and mistress, a teacher by the name of Mrs. Donovan, expensive gifts.

 

“Are you alright, child?”

 

John looked up at the old woman.

 

“You look as white as a ghost.” The woman looked concerned.

 

“I will play your game but keep Mark out of it. He is not something to be mocked.”

 

The woman nodded and glanced at a screen in corner of the room.

 

John stood abruptly knocking his chair over. “Is someone behind that screen? Have you brought me in here to mock me?” He was about to pull the screen down when Mr. Holmes stepped out around it.

 

“Mr. Holmes.” His fury rose. He balled his hands into fists.

 

“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t realize you would be so affected.” He said softly.

 

“Can I go now? I’d rather not be in the middle of this,” The old woman said, standing.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Turner, you may go.”

 

The old woman gathered her things and left as quickly as she could, leaving John and Mr. Holmes alone in the small basement room together.

 

“I’m sorry.” Holmes whispered.

 

John settled slightly seeing how upset Holmes really was. “Are you sorry for the whole venture or for what you did to me, sir?”

 

Holmes looked at him surprised. “For what I did to you. The others can go rot. They deserved what they got, and please call me Sherlock.”

 

They stood in silence for a while. John was not happy that Sherlock had found pleasure teasing his friends but he at least had seen the errors of his ways in the end. John knew with Sherlock to take what he could get.

 

“It was a rather odd day for you to leave.”

 

“Why?” Sherlock looked curious now.

 

Sherlock seemed happy with the change of subject and stepped closer to John now that John’s hands had uncurled.

 

“A visitor arrived from Spanish Town, Jamaica.”

 

Sherlock paled, if that was possible and sat down in the chair Mrs. Turner had been using.

 

“Oh, John. I wish we could just lock the door and just pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.”

 

“Sherlock?” John was not used to seeing him look so defeated. He wondered what could be so terrible to do this to him.

 

“If all the people in the drawing room tossed me out and spat at me would you follow them?”

 

John stepped closer. “I’d stay with you.”

 

They just stared at each other for a while then Sherlock stood and nodded, heading up to the drawing room.

 

\--------

 

John began to wonder who the visitor was and why Sherlock had been in such a panic over him. All he knew about him was his name, James Moriarty. He was about John’s height with black hair and warm brown skin. He was English born but John was told that is was almost impossible not to tan in Jamaica.

 

Night fell, and for once John was sleeping, dreaming about being in his aunt’s house as a child. He was hiding behind a curtain reading a book like he often did as a child and his older male cousin Henry was hunting him with a sword. When Henry found him he beat him with the book until his head bleed. John looked at the blood and leapt at him. He had him for two seconds when he was being pulled off and forced to sit in the red room.

 

The red room, the idea of it still frightened him. It was the room his uncle had died in. John had always felt like his soul still lingered there. When his aunt was cross with him she would lock him in there often binding him to a chair until she deemed him worthy to come out. She regularly left him in there all night and part of the day.

 

A scream somewhere in the house woke John, and he felt for a moment strange as if the scream should have come from him after the dream he’d had. He did his best to shake the dream from himself, pulled his dressing gown on, and entered the hall where the houseguests were milling about, wondering what was going on.

 

Sherlock appeared with a lantern and assured them all it was just a servant having a nightmare. Everyone was willing to believe it, Miss Hooper offered her help, Sherlock, told her knowing she was resting was all he needed.

 

John lingered in the hall as the guests wandered back into their bedrooms. Sherlock had tapped his arm as he had passed so John had pressed himself into the shadows waiting for him to come back.

 

When all the bedroom doors had closed, Sherlock joined John in his little corner. 

 

“I’m in need of your medical training.” He said gravely.

John nodded. They took hands and walked silently down the hallway. John was led into a part of the house he had never been into. The third floor where he had been told Grace Pool lived and worked in.

 

Sherlock unlocked a door and John found Mr. Moriarty lying covered in blood on the floor.

 

John knelt down and began working.

 

“I know you have questions, John, but I can’t answer them.” Sherlock knelt next to him. “You two aren’t allowed to talk while I’m gone. I have to go get doctor Sawyer from the village.” He sighed and placed his hand on John’s back and lent down to speak almost right in John’s ear “I won’t be gone long. Keep him stable and don’t make a sound. You’re perfectly safe here.”

 

John could feel Sherlock’s breath on him. He wanted to move into his touch and let himself be held but there was work to do. He nodded and tried not to think too hard about what or who could have injured Mr. Moriarty. There were nail marks too large for an animal and teeth marks around his throat as if someone had tried to bit him.

 

John worked to clean the wounds and wrap them. He didn’t know how much time had passed but Sherlock was in the room again with another gentleman. John stepped away his hands covered in blood. The doctor took a quick look at his handy work and then the two men eased Moriarty up and out the door.

 

John followed them down and out to the doctor’s carriage. The three of them slowly put Mr. Moriarty into the carriage and Doctor Sawyer climbed in after him. John watched as Moriarty grabbed Sherlock by the collar and whispered something in his ear. Sherlock pushed the man off but nodded to him.

 

Then the carriage was gone and Sherlock and John were left standing in front of the house together.

 

Sherlock turned to look at John his eyes stopping on John’s blood soaked hands longer than anywhere else.

 

“Walk with me John, I have a need to be in the air.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock started around the side of the house. John followed him, unwilling to be separated from him at the moment.

 

They made it around the corner when Sherlock turned to look at John. He didn’t know what state he was in except for his hands, but from Sherlock’s expression he knew he was a mess.

 

“It’s a strange night you’ve passed.”

 

“I’ve had worse.” 

 

Sherlock nodded and started walking again.

 

“You showed no fear, but that’s to be expected.”

 

“I was afraid of what did that violence.”

 

Sherlock stopped again and made John look at him. “You were in no danger.”

 

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock held up a hand and seated himself on a bench.

 

“I can’t answer your questions John. “ Sherlock paused looking at his hands, which he had folded in his lap. 

 

“I drag through life a capital error. Its consequences blighted my existence for years. I have sought to escape it.” He stopped again and looked up at John. “This spring I returned home heart sore and soul withered. And I met a gentle stranger who’s society revived me. I felt with them I could live again in a higher, purer way. Tell me, am I justified in overlooking an obstacle of custom to obtain them?” 

 

“What could it be? If you cherish an affection then fortune alone can not impede you.” John felt a weight in his chest as he spoke. He knew it was the kind and good thing to do but he hated offering love advice.

 

Sherlock looked hopefully up at John.

 

“And if the lady is of noble stock and has indicated that she may reciprocate.” At any moment John was going to walk away.

 

Sherlock looked up at John, a look of confusion clear on his face. 

 

“John, of who do you think I speak?”

 

“Miss Hooper of course.” John moved his weight back and forth between his feet, ready to bolt.

 

Darkness settled on Sherlock’s face. He stood and started walking again. John unable to stop himself followed him.

 

“I am asking what John Watson would do to secure my happiness!”

 

“I would do anything.” John stopped the moment the words were out of his mouth. Now was really the time to run. Sherlock had also stopped and was walking towards him pushing into his personal space. “Anything that was right.” John added softly.

 

“You transfix me quite.” Neither one said anything. Then the sound of footsteps on the other side of the wall pulled them out of their stupor. John rushed off alone into the house, leaving Sherlock in the garden.

 

In his room, John looked at himself in his mirror. He was covered in blood. Not just his hands but his face as well. He washed himself quickly, then lay down hoping to get a few hours of sleep before he needed to be awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The continent is an old fashion way of saying Europe.
> 
> Extended house party's were very common even up until recently. The wealthy would gather in a house for a weekend or maybe even several weeks. Often the party would float from house to house. When you don't have to work for your money there is more time to just sit around and hang out with people.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days passed and Sherlock and John hadn’t had a moment alone.  John had waited in the library for him, his fingers touching over Sherlock’s violin case but he never came.

 

John was left to watch Miss Hooper flirt with Sherlock.   Miss Hooper was no longer trying to hide her dislike of John.  She called him a creature instead of his name and refused to look at him when he was in a room with her.

When a letter arrived for John, he was, of course, confused.  He knew no one who would write to him.   He had turned the letter over and seen the seal and had known whom the letter was from or so he thought.  He sat for the most part of the day until decided that he had no choice.  Then he located Sherlock.

Sherlock was in the garden with Miss. Hooper.  It required courage for him to disrupt them but his errand was not one he felt he could defer.

Upon seeing him, Miss Hoopers smile faded. “That creature wants you.”

Sherlock turned to look at him and made a curious grimace.  He nodded to Miss Hooper and moved to follow John.

John took one last look at Miss Hooper and saw she looked furious.

Sherlock led John into his study and shut the door after them.  He then sat on the edge of his desk and looked at John expectantly.

“Well, John?”

“If you please, sir, I want a leave of absence for a week or two.”  John held out his letter for Sherlock who accepted it.  “It is from my old nurse Betty Murray.  She says my cousin Henry Baskerville is dead. He squandered his fortune and has committed suicide.  The news has shocked my aunt so much it has brought on a stroke.”

“The aunt who cast you out?”  Sherlock seemed perplexed why John had brought him the letter.

John tried to find the words to convey his feelings. It took him and minute and Sherlock waited patiently.   John recalled the last time he spoke with his aunt.

“Where do the wicked go after death, John Watson?”

John stared at the dark haired man standing in his aunt’s drawing room.  “Hell.”  he responded calmly, not understanding what this was about.

“And what is hell?”  The man asked, staring down at John.

“A pit full of fire.”

“How might you avoid going to hell?’

“I must keep in good health and not die.”

His aunt and the man shared a look.  Then they began to talk as if John was not in the room.  His aunt called him spiteful and a liar.  They talked of a school where she said John would not be wanted back for vacations.

The man left the room and his aunt dismissed him as soon as they were alone.  John understood he was being sent away and that he had nothing to left to lose.  He decided that for once he was going to tell his aunt how he really felt.

“You said I was a liar but I’m not.  If I were I would say I loved you and I don’t.  I dislike you worse then any person in the world.  People think you are good but you are bad and hardhearted.  I will let everyone know what you have done. “  John felt his face grow warm as he spoke, the blood rushing to his head.

“Children must be corrected for their faults.”  His aunt retorted, looking at him like she would like to smack the expression off his face.

“Deceit is not my fault, uncle Baskerville is in heaven, and so are my mother and father. They know how you hate me and wish me dead. They can see everything you do and they will judge you, Mrs. Baskerville.”

She stared at him for a moment then turned her face away.  As he left the room, she called after him that he would end badly.  He had bad blood in him.  She had said things like this to him since he was small.  John had wondered if she was right.

John sighed, looking at Sherlock to understand.  “She’s been asking for me.  I parted from her badly and I can’t neglect her wishes now.”

Sherlock watched him impassively, then nodded, handing back John’s letter to him.  As John tried to take it, Sherlock held the other end.

“You will come back.  Promise me you won’t stay long.”

\---------

John found his childhood home much changed.  Most of the furniture and paintings had been sold to pay off Henry’s debts.  Only a few rooms were still used and even they had only a few things in them.

John’s female cousins were not pleased to see him.  He soon found though that they bore as much love for him as they did for each other. 

Eliza had traded in her fine dresses for plain black ones.  She had plans that the day after her mother’s funeral she was going to take orders and never speak to the family again.

Harriet, on the other hand, was as silly and frivolous as he remembered.  She was more upset about having to go into mourning then anything else.  John also noticed she smelled of drink and tended to slur her words.  The gossip was she was in love with a highborn lady but her mother had forayed the marriage because she wanted an heir.  Lady Clara had been seen in the village the past week waiting for the moment the two could run off together.

John spent his time with his old nurse, Murray.  She was the only person who was pleasant to him even if it was often in a backhanded way.  After hearing how John had fared in the war and his posting, she had made several comments that the ‘the Lady was right, you can correct bad blood’ or ‘I suppose they beat your ill temper out of you at school.”

John put up with this for four days while he waited for his aunt to be ready to see him.  When he was finally led in, she glowered at him from her bed.  He took the seat next to it anyways and waited for her to speak. 

He felt at once that her opinion and her feelings of him had not changed.  She was resolved to think bad of him till the last.

“I have twice wronged you John Watson, which I regret now.  One was breaking my promise to my husband to raise you as my own child.  The other-” She stopped to take in a labored breath.

“Don’t think of it now.”  John said softly trying to calm her.

Mrs. Baskerville inhaled sharply.  “Open that box.”  She motioned to the one on table next to her bed.  “Take out the letter and read it.”

John opened the box and found inside an old letter.

Madam,

Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my nephew, John Watson, and to tell me how he is: it is my intention to write shortly and desire him to come live with me at Madeira.  Providence has blessed my endeavors to secure a competency; and I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt him during my life, and bequeath him at my death whatever I may have to leave.

James Watson, Madeira

John looked at the date on the letter.  “This is dated three years ago.  Why did I never hear of it?”

“Because I wrote to him and told him you died of typhus at Bart’s School.”  She shut her eye as if grimacing in pain.  “You called the names of dead down upon me.  You cured me.”

John felt only pity for her then, pity and sadness for a life lost.  “I would have loved you if you’d let me.”  He said softly.

She sneered.  “You were born to be my torment.”

John stood pulling himself to his full height.  “Then love me or hate me as you will.  You have my full and free forgiveness.”  He walked out of the room without a limp.

His aunt died two days later.  The day after Eliza headed to the nunnery and Harriet started selling what was left to finance her new life.  John slipped out seen only by 

Muarry and a woman who he guessed was Lady Clara.

\--------- 

 

The journey back to Thornfield Hall felt tedious.  He was going back but for how long?  He remembered that there was the chance he could get there and Sherlock could be engaged.  Hamish would for sure be sent off to school and John would need to find a new job.

During his journey, he dreamed of Miss Hooper closing the gates to Thornfield on him.  Sherlock stood next to her arms folded – smiling sardonically.

When John’s mind drifted into thoughts of his grim future, he pulled out the letter from his uncle.  He had sent a reply, clarifying his aunt’s mistake about his death and letting his uncle know where he was living.  He hoped his uncle would get in touch with him if only by letter.  John felt very alone in the world, it would be wonderful knowing he had family.

John hadn’t notified Mrs. Hudson that he was returning, not wishing to be met in Millcote by the carriage.   He had, for the last week of his stay at his aunt’s, desired to walk the rest of way to the manor to take in site of the estate for perhaps the last time.  The weather was warm and the sun just starting to set.  As he came close to the house he found Sherlock sitting on a stump writing in a notebook while watching the beehives.

The moment John saw him, he knew the day would come soon that his heart would break, but John smiled as Sherlock turned towards him giving him that smile that Sherlock seemed to reserve for him.

“Just like one of your tricks to steal in along with the twilight as if you were a shade or a dream.”  Sherlock stood closing his notebook and crossing towards John they would have to pass on the path.  “If I dared I’d touch you to see if you were real, not a shadow or an elf.”  They both stopped to look at each other as Sherlock extended his hand.

“Come John.  Stay your wandering feet at a friend’s threshold.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and felt his squeeze it slightly.

“Thank you Sherlock for letting me go, I am strangely glad to get back again to you; wherever you are is my home.”   Sherlock’s expression faltered, and John didn’t know what to do.  So he took his hand back and headed around him to the house.

The house was in a fuss as the last of the carriages left.  John entered from the back of the house and watched from a second floor window as the Hooper family got into their carriage, looking more than a little miffed.

When John had set his things down, he located Mrs. Hudson in her parlor and inquired what was going on.  There was a bigger party at another house it seemed, drawing away the guest.  Sherlock hadn’t even appeared to see people off today.  She did believe he and Miss Hooper had left things well.  She expected an announcement soon.  He had been in touch with a jeweler, bought a new carriage and had been making preparations to travel to Europe.

They were interrupted before Mrs. Hudson could say more by Hamish and Anthea poking their heads in the door.  John had welcomed them in, putting an end to his inquires.  Hamish practically crawled into his lap,  the look of an abandoned puppy on his face.

Later after Hamish had been to bed, Anthea stopped John.

“ _It is terrible to be in love_.”  She said her eyes softening for the first time since he had met her.

“ _I don’t_.” John started but she stopped him.

“ _I loved a man once.  A powerful man who tried to pretend he was god.  His body failed him and now I am like this_.”

“ _You’re not really a nurse_?”

“ _And you’re not really a tutor.  Yet here we are.”_  Then her expression closed and she walked away.

A fortnight of dubious calm settled after John’s return.  Nothing was said about Sherlock’s marriage, and John saw no preparations going on.  It was if time had gone back to before the fire in Sherlock’s room.  John spent his days teaching Hamish and in the evening he took tea with everyone in the drawing room.  Sherlock seemed to want his attention more often since his return.  Calling John out of the classroom to look at something he was writing or making John stay up late into the night while he played the violin for him. 

John had never loved Sherlock so well and it broke his heart every day thinking about the day they would be separated.  He could finally stand it no longer and decided he must know for sure what his fate was.  He gathered his strength and went looking for his master.

John located Sherlock outside.  He stayed still for a moment, then walked quickly out of the house.  He could hear Sherlock speaking to someone as he him and slowed his pace.  He need to do this calmly but he also needed to do this before he got hurt.

Sherlock saw John walking towards him and ended his conversation.  John waited a few feet away so the person still standing in the courtyard couldn’t hear them.

“You are to be married.”  The words sounded calm but John’s chest was beating like it would break at any second.

“I see Mrs. Hudson has been gossiping.”  He smiled at John softly.

“Hamish shall go to school, and I must seek another situation.  Congratulations, sir.”  John felt the last of his reserve break.  He had to get away before his emotions spilled out in front of Sherlock. 

John slowly stepped away and began walking.  He didn’t know where he was going but it was away from Sherlock.  He was half way across the yard before he realized he was heading for the fields.  He set his eyes on the large tree sitting not to far from him.  He could stand behind it and pretend he was much farther off.

John was so focused on his breathing and the tree in front of him that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him at first.  It wasn’t until Sherlock was right behind him that John knew he was there.

"Thornfield Hall is a pleasant place.  You’ll be sorry to part with it.”

John kept walking his goal still in mind, but he slowed to Sherlock’s pace.

“It’s always the way with events in life.  No sooner have you got settled than a voice cries, rise and move on.”  Sherlock watched John as he talked but John stared at the ground in front of him.

“I’ll find you a new situation John, one I hope that you’ll accept.”

John turned his body towards Sherlock’s but stared at his shoulder.  “I shall be ready when your order to march comes.”

“We’ve been good friends, haven’t we?”  Sherlock smiled at him as they kept their even pace across the yard.

“Yes.”  John mumbled.

Suddenly all humor evaporated from Sherlock’s face and he looked grimly out in front of himself.  “I’ve a strange feeling with regards to you, as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you.  And if you were to leave I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap.  And I have a notion I’d take to bleeding inwardly. “

They stopped under the just under the tree’s branches.  John couldn’t bear to look at Sherlock so he stayed facing away from him.  Not with him speaking the way he was.

“As for you - you’d forget me.”  Sherlock voice hung in the air.  The words hit John and he felt anger blooming in him.

“How?”  John turned knowing full well he was showing all his emotions on his face.  “I have lived a full life here.  I have not been trampled on.  I have not been petrified.  I have not been excluded from every glimpse of what is bright.  I have known you,” John paused feeling his grief over power him.  “It strikes me with anguish to be torn from you.”  John breathed feelings foolish for how open he was being.

“Then why must you leave?”  Sherlock’s eyes begged John to answer.

“Because you are to be married.”

“John, you must stay.”  Sherlock demanded.

“And became nothing to you?  Do you think that because I am poor, obscure, plain and little that I am soulless and heartless?  I have as much soul as you and full as much heart.  And if god had blessed me with beauty and wealth, I could make it as hard for you to leave me as it for I to leave you.  I’m not speaking to you through mortal flesh.  It is my spirit that addresses your spirit, as if we’d passed though the grave and stood at god’s feet, equal, as we are.”

“As we are.”  Sherlock reached and grasped John’s arms pulling him closer.

John struggled against Sherlock’s hold trying to turn his back on him.

“John, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.”

“I am not bird; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.”  John struggled against Sherlock’s claim on his arm but no matter how hard he pulled Sherlock kept his hold on him.

“Then let your will decide your destiny.  I offer you my hand, my heart.  John.  I ask you to pass though life at my side.  You are my equal and my likeness; my second self and best earthly companion.  Will you marry me?”

John slowly stopped fighting Sherlock and just stared at his face, as he spoke not believing what he was hearing.

“Are you mocking me?”  John balled his hands into fists, ready to strike.

“Do you doubt me?”

“Entirely!”

“How could you, you rare unearthly thing?”  Then he nodded.  “Poor and obscure as you are, I would have your passion over Miss Hooper’s controlled manners any day.  Please John, I must have you for my own.  You – poor and obscure as you are – I entreat you to accept me as a husband.”

“Me?”  John felt light headed.  “You love me?”  It didn’t fit with anything John understood about life.  John had bad blood, he was not allowed to have nice things.

“I do, I swear it.  I must have you for my own – entirely my own.  Will you be mine?  Say yes, quickly.”  Sherlock looked desperate to be believed.  John moved closer noticing how Sherlock watched him.

“Then I will marry you.”  This was the answer to all John’s pain.  If he could make this wonderful, insufferable, man his he could be happy.

Sherlock swooped down on him, pressing his lips against John’s like a man starved.  The kiss was gentle and chaste, but Sherlock seemed unwilling to have it end.  He had let go of John’s arms and wrapped his arms around John’s waist.

When Sherlock let them breath he looked at John smiling.  John panted slightly and tried not to look idiotic.

‘That wouldn’t have been your first kiss, would it, John?”

“And if it was?”  John blushed.

Sherlock held John tighter.  “I’m ten years older then you and giddy about something so trivial.”  One of Sherlock’s hands began to rubs John’s back.  “I just thought being in the army.”

“I have morals.”

Sherlock laughed.  “Does that mean only kissing?”

“Yes, but,” John stopped, hoping this came out right.  “seeing as though I have no experience I will need a lot of practice.

Sherlock hummed his approval and started kissing John again.  He paused only to let John breathe and to whisper in John’s ear.  “I’m going to marry you very quickly.”

They would have continued but it started to rain and neither one of them wanted to stay out in the storm.  They ran back to the house where Sherlock pressed John against the wall and kissed him again. 

Sherlock pulled away and a look of fear crossed over his face.  He pulled John against his chest and pressed his face to the top of John’s head.  “God pardon me and man meddle not with me: I have him, and will hold him.”

John gripped the back of his coat tightly.

“I will atone – it will atone.  I will guard, and cherish and solace him.  There is love in my heart, and constancy in my resolve.  It will expire at God’s tribunal.  I know my maker’s sanctions for what I do.  For the world’s judgment – I wash my hands thereof.”

Sherlock pulled away and looked at John, then he smiled, and John felt like his heart could burst from happiness.  Sherlock leaned down, pressing John firmly against the wall and kissed him again. 

The rest of the world disappeared and for a few minutes there was only him and Sherlock.  As John bid Sherlock goodnight, he noticed Mrs. Hudson watching him.  John knew in the morning he had a completely different kind of storm waiting for him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the wedding, but will it be happily ever after or will Sherlock's past catch up with him?

As John rose and dressed, he thought over what had happened, and wondered if it were all a dream.  He could not be certain of the reality till he had seen Sherlock and heard him tell him he loved him again.

While gathering his things for the day, the door to his room burst open and Hamish ran in to inform him the tree he’d been standing under just the night before had been struck by lightning and had split.

John let Hamish lead him out to the yard where Mrs. Hudson was watching over a pair of workers who were cutting off the dead part of the tree.  She smiled at John as he walked up to her but he could tell she was holding back her feelings.

“Am I a monster?”  John asked after a long awkward silence between them.  “Is it so impossible that Mr. Holmes should love me?”  John felt it was better to call Sherlock by his formal name in front of the woman.

“No.”  Mrs. Hudson shook her head and sighed.  “I’ve long noticed you were a sort of pet of his.  But you’re so young and so little acquainted with life.  I don’t want to grieve you, child, but let me just put you on your guard.  Gentlemen in his position… well, let’s just say, they’re not accustomed to marrying their tutors.  Until you are wed, distrust yourself as well as him.  Please, keep him at a distance.”

John understood what she was saying.  Part of him wanted to tell her he had already planned on staying chaste till he was wed but he knew she would just smile and nod.  Sherlock had a habit of being able to convince people to do what he wanted despite their best plans.  John knew till he was officially married nothing must change from his schedule.  He would continue to teach Hamish during the day and give Sherlock a few hours of his time in the evening.

John took Hamish up to the school room and found Sherlock waiting there, sitting on the window seat reading one of the books John had taken from the library.  He smiled at John as he entered.

“ _Go to your room for a while, Hamish_.”  Sherlock’s eyes never left John.

“ _No, stay, we have work to do_.”  John took Hamish’s hand as he started to leave the room.

Hamish looked between the two adults, clearly confused on whose order to follow.

Sherlock smiled in a way that told John he wasn’t amused with being denied.  “Just a half hour, if you please, Mr. Watson?”

John sighed.  He was excited to be alone with Sherlock but after what Mrs. Hudson had said he was a little worried.  He nodded and released Hamish’s hand.

“ _Take your book and read till I call for you_.”

“ _Yes, monsieur_.”  Hamish picked up the book off his desk and left the room closing the door after him.

There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock opened his arms and smiled at John the way he only did when they were alone.  “Come and bid me good-morning.”

John walked to him and let Sherlock take him into his arms.  They held each other for a few minutes then Sherlock pulled back so he could look into John’s face.  His smile grew as they looked at each other then he leaned down and kissed John.

“You look blooming, and smiling and handsome today.  Is this my pale, little elf?”

“Yes.”

“In four weeks you will be John Holmes; not a day more, understand.”

John nodded and buried his face into Sherlock’s shoulder as he had so often imagined himself doing.

“Today I will take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you will meet with a tailor.  The wedding will take place in a quiet church near here then we will head for town.  After a short visit there we will head to France, and Italy.”

John sat silently afraid if he spoke the moment would end and he would be in his room waking from a dream.

“What is it?”  Sherlock asked sounding concerned.  He lifted John’s face so he could look at him.  “John Watson with nothing to say?”

“Everything seems unreal.”  John whispered laying his head down on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I am real enough.”  Sherlock murmured to him, placing a hand on John’s back.

“You are the most phantom–like of all.”

Sherlock pulled him close and held him tight.

 

 

The month to the wedding went by like a dream.  John couldn’t remember a time he had been happier.  He told Sherlock all his secrets and enjoyed the feeling of being held for the first time in years.  The last time he had felt this loved was when Mark had been alive.

John remembered meeting Mark, how he had been the only person willing to be kind to John after Headmaster Anderson warned the students not to get close to him.  Mark and John had spent every moment together planning the day they would be set free from school.  John hadn’t known it then but Mark had had consumption.  The scarlet fever outbreak and poor conditions of the school made things worse.  His case was so bad they eventually separated him from the other students.  Looking back now, John imagined they knew Mark would die long before they separated him from John.

John had snuck down to the sick ward and into Mark’s bed the night he died and held him, not knowing when he woke up his best friend and first crush would be dead beside him.  The image of Mark dead, his golden hair on the white pillow, his skin blue and cold to the touch had followed John for a long time.  It wasn’t until the war when new more horrible images replaced it that John was able to push away the haunting image of his friend and begin to remember him alive more often.

When he told Sherlock of this one evening, the two of the on the sofa, Sherlock’s head on his lap, Sherlock listened impassively.  Then he took John’s hand and brought it to his lips and kissed the palm of it softly.

“I’m going to chase all those demons away, little elf, if it’s the last thing I do.”  Then he looked at John with a look John could only describe as determined.

John was ready to forget his painful past and let Sherlock distract him.

One afternoon, John finally got the courage to ask Sherlock if he could draw him.  Sherlock had been pleased with the request saying, ‘it was about time’.  It was true John had drawn almost everyone else in the house but he had always avoided drawing Sherlock because he would have to look at him for a long time.  Now that Sherlock was his, he no longer felt shy about watching him to his hearts content.

They had gone out to the garden and sat on opposite benches, Sherlock looking noble and proud.  John had been very happy with the finished piece.  He’d put it on his dressing table to look at.

 

 

Three days before the wedding his new suits arrived including the light grey one he would wear to be married in.  Hamish watched him unpack the clothing, his eyes full of envy at John’s new things.

John was reminded of the horrible shopping trip where Sherlock had attempted to buy him more and more.  His face had burned with a sense of annoyance and degradation.  He had hoped his uncle would write back soon with news that he was adopting John so that one day he would be on more equal footing with Sherlock and not some dress up doll as he felt right then.

Even Mrs. Hudson got excited over the sight of the new clothing.  It seemed she had come to terms with the marriage and was relieved to seeing it go ahead as quickly as it was.

‘I will be John Watson no longer.’  John thought holding the suit up to inspect.  It was a happy thought.  It filled him with adulation knowing he would soon belong to Sherlock.  His future husband was becoming to him his whole world, and more then his world; almost his hope of heaven.

Sherlock had of course not borne it well that John didn’t want things to change until the wedding.  If he’d had his way John would have sat with him all day or spent his days in bed being waited on.  John had been very firm and Sherlock eventually told him it made him love him all the more.

“After all, a small interruption will not matter much when I am shorty to claim you - your thoughts, conversation, and company – for life.”

The morning of the wedding Anthea helped John dress.  She smiled at him in the mirror and told him he looked wonderful.  Hamish brought him a white rose for him buttonhole and he leaned down so the child could put it in himself.

“ _You must be nervous_.”

John looked up at Anthea.  “ _No.  I’m sure of what I’m doing_.”

“ _This may be the last time I see you so let me give you some advice.”_ She paused looking away for a moment. _“Tell him when he’s a fool.  And make him stop to enjoy the world sometimes.  He’s just like his brother.”_  She shook her head.

“ _You knew his brother_?”  This was news to John.

“ _For ten years I lived with him in Paris.  We never married because my rank was inferior.  When he died I lost everything.  If Sherlock had not been kind I would have ended up on the streets.  He paid for a room for me for 5 years then he asked me for help._ ”  She shrugged.  “How could I refuse?”

John knew little of Sherlock’s brother other than he had died and that there was bad blood between them.  Sherlock had mentioned a mistake once then gone quiet as if he felt he had said too much.

“ _I’ll take care of him_.”  John smiled at her and she smiled back before letting her expression close.

When John went to find Sherlock he found him tense, barking orders at the staff to have the carriage ready by the time they got back.  John and he had talked about what was to happen after the ceremony.  John wanted to stay a few nights until it was time for Hamish to go off to school.  Sherlock was determined to set off for London as soon as they were married.  He almost felt Sherlock was running away from something.  John finally gave in and did as Sherlock wanted, only because the conversation seemed to upset Sherlock.

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, reaching for his hand. 

John gave it to her and smiled back.

“Take courage, John.”  She looked sad as she smiled and John hoped it was only because they would be separated soon.

“I will,” John murmured back.

Sherlock marched up to them and rammed right between them taking John’s hand.  “Come.”

John followed after him as best he could.  His hand was held in an iron grip: he was hurried along by a stride he could hardly follow.  Sherlock marched the whole way to the church not saying a word.

John wondered if he’d done something wrong or to offend him.  He walked the entire time a step behind Sherlock starring at the back of his head hoping he would turn to look at him.

When they reached the church the priest was waiting for them at the lower alter.  They took their place at the communion-rails.  He smiled and Sherlock told him to get on with it.  The priest had looked shocked at the request but re-centered himself and began.

“I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful Day of Judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.”

John looked at Sherlock trying to make him meet his eye.  The man refused to and spent the whole time staring at John’s shoes.  John felt strange.  He had been so sure this would be a happy event and now the whole thing seemed to have upset Sherlock.

“That if either of you do know any impediment why you may not be joined together lawfully, you do now confess it.”

There was a moment of silence while the priest waited for one of them to say something.  Somewhere in the church a door opened and slammed shut.

“Sherlock William Holmes-“

A man rushed into the aisle and yelled.  “The marriage cannot go on!” 

The priest fell silent.  Sherlock moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet.  His eyes looked wild.

“An insurmountable impediment exists.”  The man continued.

John looked at Sherlock hoping for an answer.

“Proceed.”  Sherlock growled at the priest.

“I affirm and can prove-“

“Proceed!”  Sherlock yelled.

“That Sherlock William Holmes was, ten years ago married to my sister, Janine Antoinetta Moriarty, at St. James Church, Spanish Town Jamaica.”

John’s nerves vibrated to the words as they had never vibrated to thunder – his blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire.  He watched Sherlock waiting for this to be a cruel joke, for him to laugh at very idea that he was already married.  Sherlock continued to refuse to meet his eye and with every second he looked guiltier and guiltier.

“Who are you?”  Sherlock demanded.

“My name is Moran, I’m a solicitor.  A copy of the register in now in my possession.  Signed, James Moriarty.”

John saw something down the aisle catch Sherlock’s attention.  He turned and saw James Moriarty sauntering up to them a look of amusement on his face.

Sherlock charged down the aisle at the man gripping him by the collar.

“She lives at Thornfield Hall.” Mr. Moriarty said before Sherlock cut off his air supply.

The priest rushed down the aisle with the other man and pulled Sherlock off Mr. Moriarty.

John felt a coldness seep into him and take hold of his heart.  The one person he had trusted completely had betrayed him.  He wanted to run away but found he couldn’t move.

Sherlock stood panting a few feet away from Moriarty.  He slowly turned and looked back up the aisle at John.  He looked lost and dejected.

“This man knew nothing of this.  He thought all was fair and legal.”  Sherlock looked at John anger and sadness rushing across his expression.  “Bigamy is an ugly word!  I meant however to be a bigamist: but fate has outmaneuvered me.’

The priest looked at John with pity.

“He never dreamt he was being entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch.”  Sherlock walked back up the aisle and took John by the hand.  “Come, John.  Come, all of you.  Meet my wife.”

Sherlock dragged John back to the house followed by the priest, Mr. Moriarty, and his solicitor, Mr. Moran.  Outside the hall all the servants were waiting to greet them.  Hamish threw flower petals as they came near.  Smiling brightly at them.

“Get back.”  Sherlock growled.  “Go, all of you.  Go!  You’re ten years too late.”

They pushed past the servants and Hamish and headed into the house.  They passed on the ascending stairs, Sherlock still holding his hand and beckoning the gentlemen to follow.  They mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery, and proceeded to the third story.

Mrs. Poole was sitting in the room John had treated Mr. Moriarty’s wounds in.  She looked shocked to see them.

“Mrs. Poole.”  Sherlock said not stopping.

The woman jumped up and moved towards a tapestry on the wall.  She moved it aside and put a key into the lock.  “You ought to give warning sir.”

The second the door was unlocked Sherlock pushed through it.  They entered a room that was dark except for the sunlight coming in through the boarded up windows.  A woman sat on a bed humming, eating her own hair.

“This is Janine Antoinetta Moriarty.  My wife.”

“Janine.  It’s I, James.”  Mr. Moriarty stepped closer to the woman.

John felt sick.  All the time he had been living there that woman had been locked up out of sight.

“She has her quiet times and her rages.  The windows are shuttered lest she throws herself out.  We have no furniture as she can make a weapon out of anything.  I take her for a turn upon the roof each day, securely held, as she’s taken to thinking she can fly.”  Mrs. Poole said from her spot by the door.

Janine looked at everyone then fixed her eyes on Sherlock.  She walked up to him and pressed her face into his chest.

John felt like crying.

Sherlock put a hand on the back of her head and petted her hair looking disgusted.  “My own demon.”  He whispered.  “Can you understand why I chose this man?  This man who stands to grave and quiet at the mouth of hell.  Who is all quietness, and sanity, and innocence.  Do you wonder why I wanted him?  Why I risked the wrath of god to get him.”

Janine lifted her face and spat at John. 

He looked down and saw a fly resting on the rose Hamish had put on him.  As John looked back up the woman flew into a rage and tried to scratch Sherlock’s eyes out.

Sherlock held her so her arms were trapped at her sides.

John couldn’t take it anymore and fled the room.

Back in his own room, John shut the door and fastened the bolt so that no one could intrude.  The he proceeded not to weep, not to mourn but to calmly take off his wedding clothing and replace it with his old suit he had worn the day before.  His suits Sherlock had told him to leave behind.  He’d said it was too plain for the places there were going.

He sat on the edge of his bed and let himself cry.  His hopes were dead, stuck with a subtle doom.  He looked at his future, yesterday so blooming and glowing; it lay stark, chill.  He looked at his love; that feeling which was Sherlock, which he had created; it shivered in his heart, like a suffering child.  Sickness and anguish had seized it and he couldn’t seek Sherlock’s arms.  He could never turn to him; for his faith was blighted – confidence destroyed.

At one point John heard Sherlock at his door begging to be let in.  He even tried the handle rattling the door.

John ignored him.

Before John knew it, it was after dark.  Many hours must have passed.  His head swam as he stood.  He realized he hadn’t eaten or drank all day.  John unlocked his door and headed into the hall.  It was dark but seemed to be empty.  He had made it two steps out of his door when he saw a shadow move.  Sherlock stood up awkwardly from his place on the floor.

“John.  You come out at last.”

John stood still for a moment then decided his need for water was too great to ignore.

“Forgive me.  I’m worthless.  How could I?”

John said nothing but made to move past him. 

Sherlock held his place blocking John’s escape.  “John.  No tears.  Why don’t you cry?  Why not scream at me?  I deserve a hail of fire.  I wish you would not shun me.  Let me hear you cry and offer comfort.

John said nothing, could say nothing.  He was too numb inside. 

Sherlock stayed blocking his path.

He realized until he said something Sherlock wouldn’t move.  “I need some water.”  John said, his voice soft. 

“Of course.”  Sherlock moved to the side to let John pass.

John stepped forward and felt faint.  His head was still dizzy, his sight dim and limbs weak.  He grabbed hold of the wall gasping.

“John?”  Sherlock took his candle from him and sat it down then he reached under John’s knees and back and picked him up holding John against his chest. 

John let his head fall onto Sherlock’s shoulder as he was carried to the library.

Sherlock set John down in a chair and lit a fire.  As it took flame he moved over to the sideboard and filled John a glass of wine.  He pressed the glass into John’s hand and knelt at his feet.

John drank the whole glass in two gulps.

“How are you now?”  Sherlock asked looking concerned and frightened.

John finally let himself meet his eye.  “I will be well again soon.”

Sherlock leaned in to kiss his cheek.

John remembered caresses were forbidden now and moved his head away from him.

“I know you.  You’re thinking.”  Sherlock stood and stepped in front of the fire.  “Talking is of no use, you’re thinking how to act.”

“All is changed, sir.  I must leave you.”

“No. No!”  Sherlock shook his head and sat on the footrest in front of John.  He took John’s hands in his and squeezed them a desperate look in his eyes.  “John, do you love me?”

John closed his eyes trying to hold off his tears.  When he looked at Sherlock again he realized he had answered.

“Then the essential things are the same.  Be my husband.”

John sneered at him.  “You have a wife.”

“I pledge you my honor, my fidelity-“

“You cannot.”

“My love, until death do us part.”

“What of truth?”

“I would have told you the truth.”

“You are deceitful, sir!”

They stared at each other for a few moments in silence.  Then Sherlock’s eyes dropped.

“I was wrong to deceive you.  I see that now.  It was cowardly.  I should have appealed to your spirit as I do now.”  Sherlock looked back up at him.  “Janine Antoinetta Moriarty.  She was wanted by my father, and my brother, for her fortune.  I hardly spoke with her before the wedding.  I lived with her six months.  Her temper ripened, her vices sprang up, violent and unchaste.  Only cruelty would check her, and I’d not use it.  I was chained to her for life, John.  Not even the law could free me.  Have you ever set foot in a madhouse, John?”

“No, sir.”

“The inmates are caged and baited like beasts.”  Sherlock shrugged.  “I spared her that at least.”

John felt weak.  He felt if Sherlock kept talking he would forgive him.

“John.”

“I earnestly pity you, sir.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No.  Who would you offend by living with me?  Who would care?”

“I would. “

“You’d rather drive me to madness than break some human law?  Sherlock started to cry.

“I must respect myself.”

“Listen to me.”  Sherlock gripped John’s arms and made him look at him.  “Listen.”  Sherlock bent his head till it was pillowed on John’s chest and wept.  “I could bend you with my finger and my thumb, a mere reed you feel in my hands.”

John broke free of his grip and stood.

Sherlock threw his arms around John’s legs and held him close to himself.  “But whatever I do with this cage, I cannot get at you.  It is your soul that I want.”

John took a deep breath to steady himself.

“Why don’t you come of your own free will?”

“God help me!”  John whispered, then he pushed off Sherlock’s hands and fled the room.

Sherlock didn’t follow him.

John went to his room and packed anything he could hold in the small bag he had in the room with him.  He took his wallet, an extra shirt, a pair of socks, and his winter gloves.  A gift from father Stamford.  He waited till dawn then he pulled on his jacket and snuck out of the house.  He didn’t know where he was going, he just knew he had to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there was anything anyone didn't understand leave me a message and i will address it


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait between chapters personal life got in the way
> 
> specializedinomniscience did the beta work for this chapter

Three days went by. John had caught a carriage on the main road that passed the house and let it take him as far as he could pay. He had been left in the middle of nowhere and had forgotten the package of things he had brought with him on board. Alone with only three pennies to his name, he had wandered out onto the moor. He slept rough for two nights as he wandered aimlessly. He dreamed he could see Mark walking out in front of him, leading him on, but onto where?

 

On the third night, he was woken by rain. It came down heavy as if it were trying to flood him out. John was driven from his resting place. He walked across the moor, hoping he would find some shelter. After an hour, he saw a light in the distance. It weaved in front of him as he walked. He ventured towards it in hopes that it would offer safety and warmth. As he came close, he realized it was a house. He rushed forward with the last of his strength and reached the door. Before he could knock, however, he collapsed.

 

He would die if he did not get inside, but he had no strength, nor will, to keep himself moving. He was so lost, his heart broken. As his mind started to fade, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Then felt himself being lifted.

 

The world around him blurred, but he heard faint voices calling to each other. He was laid out on a chair and felt the heat of a fire on his skin. Something was pressed to his lips. He parted them and the taste of milk filled his mouth.

 

Slowly, John took in his surroundings. He was in a house, sitting in a wooden chair next to a roaring fireplace. There was a man kneeling down in front of him. He was dressed all in black and had silver hair. Behind him were two young ladies dressed in plain clothing. They hovered over the man, looking at John.

 

“He’s no vagrant. I’m sure of it.” The man said, turning to look at the ladies.

 

“Ask him his name.” One of them demanded. 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

John thought he heard Marks voice calling to him. If he closed his eyes he could see him smiling down at him. Was he dying? Had Mark come to fetch him?

 

“Tell us how we may help you.” The man held the mug of milk to John’s lips.

 

John took a long drink before concentrating on breathing.

 

“Your name,” one of the ladies repeated.

 

“I must hide.” John whispered. It took all his strength to speak.

 

“Greg, we must get him warm.” One of the ladies said before walking off.

 

“We’ll take him upstairs.” Greg said, stripping John of his soaked cloak.

 

“Will he die?” The lady who had remained asked.

 

“My name is John Wilson.” John breathed.

 

“Who can we send for to help you?” The man asked.

 

“No one.” John shook his head. “I mustn’t ever be found.” He felt darkness creeping up on him again and he let himself sink into it. 

 

\--------

 

John spent the next week in bed. The people of the house had taken pity on him and given him a room. They cared for him, nursing him back to health. Mostly the two ladies and their housekeeper, though sometimes in the evening the gentleman would stick his head in and inquire about John’s health. He learned he was staying with the Lestrade family. The two sisters were named Kitty, and Violet. The brother was Greg, the minister at a local church.

 

On John’s eighth day with them, he rose from his bed ready to re-join the world. His heart felt like ice, but his body was still moving. He knew, despite how horrible he felt, he could not give up. His strength was slowly returning to him, but even so, it took him close to an hour to wash and dress himself. He was hindered by the return of his limp, which made walking problematic. John listened to the house as he dressed and, after a while, he heard Greg’s voice rise up to him as the man read a prayer.

 

Fully dressed, John went down the stairs to greet his rescuers. They sat at the table praying over their breakfast. They looked up as John walked towards them, limping painfully as he went. He smiled and sat in an empty chair at the table. When the prayer was finished, a bowl of porridge was placed in front of him. 

 

They ate in silence until Violet spoke. “It’s wonderful to see you up, Mr. Wilson. Last week we feared we’d be escorting your remains to an unmarked grave.”

 

Kitty laughed. “Pay no mind to her. She read The Bride of Lindorf, and suddenly it’s all woebegone maidens and dramatic deaths.”

 

“I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.” John mumbled.

 

“Nonsense.” Kitty said, looking at him in earnest. 

 

“You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened here since Greg’s sermon on the fall of Babylon.” Violet smiled.

 

“I hope I’ll not be staying long at your expense, Mr. Lestrade.” John said, finding his voice enough to speak calmly.

 

“Then tell me where to place you.” He smiled at John, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

 

“Show me where to seek work, that is all that I ask.”

 

“I’ll endeavor to help you, if that’s what you wish.” Greg said, looking back down at his food.

 

“With all my heart, sir.”

 

“The school you attended, Mr. Wilson, the charitable institution.”

 

John froze, wondering how much he had told them of himself. Clearly, he had at least talked about Barts, but had he also mentioned Sherlock?

 

“What did it prepare you for?” Greg asked.

 

John recalled being beaten with a switch for answering questions wrong or standing up for himself.

 

“Was it a thorough education?”

 

“Very thorough.” John said, trying not to reach up to the back of his neck to feel the scar he had there. He remembered being starved and how Mr. Anderson had tried to turn the students against him by calling him a liar. With the bad memories, however, came the good. Sitting with Mark in the yard on a sunny day, or the times with Father Stamford after he had taken over the school. John shut away the thoughts before he remembered too much.

 

\--------

 

Over the next two weeks, John regained his strength. He stayed with the Lestrades, feeling, at once, brought into the fold of the family by the two sisters. It was clear they saw him as a new brother and he was thrilled to know it. He had never had a real family before. Perhaps he could be a part of theirs. Even Greg was kind to him. He had given him a new cane, one had had carved himself.

 

Sadly, their peaceful time together could not last. The sisters were both governesses at homes more than sixty miles away. They had been back on leave, which they took once a year to mourn the passing of their parents. When the sisters left, John felt sad. He had only known them for a short time, but he had felt like they were a part of him. He stood by the door to the Lestrades’ house with Greg and waved them goodbye.

 

“Mr. Lestrade? I wondered if you had yet heard of any work I would do.” John asked, turning to the man next to him.

 

“I found you a situation some time ago, but I’ve delayed telling you because the work is lowly and I fear you’ll scorn it.” Greg looked at John like he was gauging his interest.

 

“I shan’t mind what I do.”

 

Greg sighed and started walking down the path to the small garden behind the house, John following close behind him.

 

“When I took over the parish two years ago it had no school. I opened one for boys and one for girls. I was able to find a headmistress for the girl’s school, but, with no one available to teach the boys, I have been doing it myself. I am far too busy to be running a school on top of all my other work, and, I admit, I have not given it the attention it needs. I would like to hire you to take over the school. The schoolmaster will have a cottage paid for by benefactors, and will receive 15 pounds a year.” He paused for a moment to glance at John before continuing. “You can see how humble, how ignorable it is.”

 

“Mr. Lestrade, thank you.” John smiled at him. It had been a dream of his for years to have a school of his own. To think he could make that dream come true at such a young age. “I accept.”

 

Greg looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Don’t you comprehend me? ‘Tis a village school, cottagers’ sons. What will you do with all your accomplishments? Your French, drawing, and mathematical skills?”

 

“I will save them till they’re wanted. They will keep.”

 

Greg nodded and continued walking.

 

John moved into the cottage in three days with the few belongings he had: his cloak, gloves, and his hat, along with the suit Lestrade had given him. One the man had worn when he was young and which no longer fit him. The school was on its own with no neighbors for a mile off in either direction. It sat between the small town and the hamlet where most of his students lived. It was quiet, but John enjoyed it. 

 

He worked hard to make the schoolroom nice and to teach his students all he could. He had made Greg promise he could set the rules at the school. The first one being there would be no beating of the students. John’s students already loved him and he loved them back.

 

On his own, John would spend his evenings reading books Greg had lent to him. They were mostly religious books, though every now and then one of Violet’s romance books fell into the group. He started learning Sanskrit and Arabic so he could read more of Greg’s books and to pass the time. If he were not careful, his mind would wander back to Thornfield. Sometimes he could hear Sherlock calling to him. His heart stopped every time and he found himself turning towards the voice.

 

Summer turned to fall, which turned to winter. John’s house filled with drawings from his students, along with his own. He no longer drew fantasylands. Instead, he drew the faces of the people he loved. He drew Hamish, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and his sisters, and when he was sad, he drew Sherlock. He drew him constantly, wondering if he would ever stop loving him. He had forgiven him a long time ago, but could not get himself to contact him. He would not be Sherlock’s secret. No matter how much he loved him, he could not be with him. Not like that.

 

\--------

 

John stood at the window of the schoolroom, watching his student walk home. When they were with him, he had no time to feel lonely. However, night was setting and he would have to face his demons on his own.

 

“I asked how you were.”

 

John jumped and looked behind him. Greg stood by his desk, holding his hat in his hands. He looked at John like he was putting together a puzzle and John was the missing piece.

 

“I’m getting on very well.”

 

“Do you find the work too hard?”

 

“Not at all.” John smiled.

 

“Is the solitude oppressing?” Greg leaned against his desk, looking at the papers on it.

 

“I hardly have time to notice it.”

 

“Then perhaps you are dwelling on things past.”

 

“When I came to your door, I had nothing. Now I have a home and work, free and honest.” John paused to collect his thoughts. “This is my first home where I am neither dependent nor subordinate to anyone. I am thankful for it.”

 

“What you had left before I met you, I don’t know, but, I counsel you to firmly, resist every temptation to look back.”

 

John smiled again, hoping it reached his eyes. “That’s what I intend to do.”

 

“A year ago, I was myself intensely miserable. I scorned my weakness, fought hard against it and won.” Greg smiled at him. “I wonder if we do not share the same alloy. You are ambitious, I think. And this little school will not hold you for long.” Greg’s eyes wandered back down to John’s desk and his expression shifted for a moment, showing confusion. His hand moved awkwardly across the desk’s surface and then went into his pocket.

 

“Is something the matter?” John asked, stepping away from the window.

 

“Nothing,” Greg smiled, “goodnight.” He walked out of the schoolroom and shut the door behind him.

 

\--------

 

It snowed heavily after that. The children could not make it to the school the weather was so bad. John instated a holiday until the weather cleared up. He spent his days alone, trying not to let his mind wander. He was largely unsuccessful and spent far too much time thinking about Sherlock, wondering whether the choice he had made was the right one.

 

John sat in his chair in front of the fire, too tired to move to his bed. He was startled when he heard a sudden banging on the door. It was late and the snow had been falling all day. No one should be out in that kind of weather. He slowly got up, taking hold of his cane to help him walk. The banging continued as he walked towards the door. He opened it to find Sherlock standing in front of him, covered in snow and out without his hat.

 

John felt warmth pool in his body. He did not know how Sherlock had found him, but he was grateful he had. He reached for him, his cane dropping to the ground. Sherlock reached back, taking him in his arms and pulling him close against him. They held each other for a long while, John turning his face towards Sherlock. They looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. John buried one of his hands in Sherlock’s curls, the other he used to pull at the front of his coat, dragging him into his house. Sherlock followed willingly. Sherlock kissed him passionately like a man starved. Minutes passed, their mouths only leaving the other to take short breaths. Finally, John pulled back so he could see Sherlock clearly.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, but it wasn’t his voice. It was Greg’s.

 

There was a sudden banging at the door and John jolted, realizing he was still sitting in his chair by the fire. He looked around, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Just a dream then. 

 

A fist banged against the door again and a Greg’s voice called out from the other side. “John, are you in there?”

John stood quickly, rearranging his clothing and hoping he did not look flushed. He opened the door to find Greg standing there, his fist raised to knock again.

 

“Mr. Watson,” Greg nodded as he pushed into the house, shivering as he went.

 

John looked back out into the storm, feeling like Sherlock should be out there. He closed the door reluctantly, the cold making him act.

 

“What brings you from your hearth on a night like this? There is no bad news, I hope.” John asked, turning to his guest.

 

He found Greg had removed his jacket and knelt down in front of the fire. 

 

“How easily alarmed you are, Mr. Watson.”

 

“Shall I get you some tea?”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Watson.” Greg smiled.

 

John moved into the kitchen and pulled the extra teacup from its place on the shelf. He was pouring Greg tea when he realized what name Greg had called him. Watson, not Wilson. John looked at Greg and saw him watching him.

 

“I received a letter from a solicitor named Moran inquiring about a John Watson.” Greg held out a hand for his tea.

 

John handed it to him, thankful his hand remained steady.

 

“I knew a John Wilson. This paper resolved my suspicion into certainty.” He held out a folded piece of paper.

 

John took it and opened it. On it was a drawing of Hamish with his signature in the bottom corner, John Watson.

 

“So I wrote to him. He told the story of a young tutor. And his employer, a Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Mr. Lestrade.” John said, squeezing his eyes shut, as if that could stop him from hearing the story. When he looked at Greg, his face was impassive.

 

“I can guess your feelings, but please hear me.”

 

John sighed. “As you know so much, perhaps you’ll tell me how he is?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Mr. Holmes.”

 

“I’m ignorant of all which concerns him.”

 

John looked at him, confused. “But he’s been seeking me?”

 

“No, he hasn’t. Mr. Moran has.”

 

John held his back straight, trying to feel imposing. “What does he want with me?”

 

“To tell you that your uncle, Mr. James Watson of Madeira, is dead, that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich.”

 

John felt like he had been punched in the gut. He had lost his only living relative.

 

“Will you not ask how much you are worth?” Greg asked, as if he was blind to how affected John was.

 

“How much am I worth?” John asked, completely disinterested. 

 

“Twenty thousand pounds.” 

 

Greg laughed but John felt cold. He had once hoped for a fortune to make him Sherlock’s equal. Now that he could not have him, what was the point of such a sum?

 

“One would think you had committed a murder and I’d found you out, you could scarcely look more aghast.” Greg’s smile faded. “You look desperately miserable about it. Please sit down. It seems I’ve shocked you.” 

 

Greg led John to his chair and helped him sit. He then sat himself on the footstool and watched John.

 

“Why did Mr. Moran contact you?” John asked, realizing there was something odd about what Greg had said.

 

“Because, I’m your cousin. My mother was your sister’s sister.”

 

“We’re family?” John asked, shocked.

 

Greg nodded.

 

John thought about the money and what he could do with it. That amount of money would mean Kitty and Violet would not have to work anymore. They could come home and live with Greg, who seemed so sad on his own. With twenty thousand pounds, he could split it four ways. Thank them for their generosity and help them be a family again. His family.

 

“Mr. Lestrade, the debt I owe to you and your sisters-”

 

“Is nothing,” Greg shook his head.

 

“You saved my life. Please write to them. This money frees us. They will have five thousand each, and so will you, if you’ll take it.”

 

“Certainly not.” Greg shook his head.

 

“We are cousins and if you would accept me as a brother, perhaps we could all live together, at Moor House.”

 

“I’ve told you the news too quickly. You’re confused.”

 

“The only relative I thought I had is dead. You are my family now. You cannot know what isolation means.”

 

“And you cannot know what it means to be wealthy.”

 

“I have been alone always. I’ve never had sisters, or a brother. Please, let me be yours.”

 

Greg looked at the ground for a few minutes.

 

“Are you reluctant to have me?”

 

Greg’s head shot up. “No, Mr. Watson. On the contrary, I shall write to my sisters as you request.”

 

John smiled and took Greg’s hand. “Brother.”

 

Greg smiled awkwardly back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally at the last chapter!! i hope you like it. i have been working on this fix for over 2 years so it feels strange for it to be over.
> 
> there are multiple minor charter deaths in this chapter but if you have read the book or seen any of the movies they won't surprise you.
> 
> *** just a reminded that any italic type means the characters are speaking french ***
> 
> there is non descriptive sex in this chapter!

Letters went out to Violet and Kitty in the next post and, in a fortnight, they were home.  John continued his work at the school while Greg looked for a new teacher. When one was found, he moved to Moor House.  It was awkward at times, fitting himself into the family.  The others knew each other so well.  The sisters did everything they could to make him feel at home, teaching him German and telling him stories of their students.  Even Greg started going on long walks with him.  They talked mostly of religion and Greg’s work.

 

 

Greg was determined to be a missionary and, now that he had the money, he could fund his trip.  This worried the sisters greatly.  They feared Greg would get ill and die.

 

 

John did his best to live in the moment and enjoy the peace he had created for himself.  Without the work at the school, he found his mind idling and wandering back to Thornfield more then it should.  He had dreams about Sherlock and often, while he walked, he swore he heard him calling to him over the moor.

 

 

\-----

 

 

John and Greg were on one of their walks. If John was honest, his mind had drifted to another time when he had walked the paths of Thornfield with Sherlock, Hamish running ahead of them.  He felt a hand touch his elbow and looked over at Greg.  He realized Greg had been talking and he hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

 

 

“Sorry, what was that?”

 

 

“I said, I go to India in six weeks. I can see what your gifts are and why they were given.”  He stopped and John stopped with him.  “God intended you for a missionary’s husband.  I want to claim you.”

 

 

John shook his head.  He had lost so much of his faith in the past year. “I’m not fit for it.”

 

 

“Have you never asked yourself why god led you here? On that evening on the very moment you were ready to die he led me through all this wilderness to find you. You have always felt you must travel the world.  John it is your destiny, and know this, in you I recognize a fellow soul.”

 

 

John didn’t know what to say.

 

 

“Give it some thought.  All I ask is that you tell me in the next three weeks. Then I will have to book my passage and I need to know if I am going alone.”

 

 

John nodded.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He thought on it for two weeks. Kitty and Violet were happy when he talked to them.  They hoped that by marrying John that meant Greg would stay in England.  When John told them Greg’s plan they looked even more worried. They were convinced John wouldn’t be able to survive India.

 

 

John tried to remind them that he had been a soldier and had survived the rough and the rain, but they did not seem to hear him. He realized he would always be the man they had nursed back to health.  Frail and near death.

 

 

John worried about the fact that he did not love Greg as more than family.  What kind of marriage would that be?  How could he be happy like that?  He took many long walks alone to think and decided that, despite that fact that he was still in love with Sherlock, he would go.  As long as Greg agreed to a few things.

 

 

 

He met Greg on the road.  He had seen him coming over the moor and decided to meet him so they could talk alone.  As they came near, Greg smiled and tipped his hat.

 

 

“I’ll go with you to India.”

 

 

Greg’s smiled grew.

 

 

“I’ll go if I may go free.”

 

 

“Free?”  He looked unsure.  “How can I take a young man of twenty-one to India unless he is my husband?”

 

 

“I love you as a brother.  As a husband, no, my heart is mute.  You don’t love me either”

 

 

Greg’s expression hardened.  “Love is not an ingredient in this matter. If you say your heart it mute then I must speak for it.  You’ve said you’ll come.  We shall marry and, undoubtedly, enough of love will follow.”  He passed John and headed towards the house.

 

 

John stood still for a moment thinking about what had just happened.  “Enough of love?” He turned to look at Greg.

 

 

Greg stopped and looked back at him. “Yes, quiet enough.”

 

 

“Of love?”  How could Greg think like that?

 

 

“Yes.  In all its forms.”

 

 

“Forgive me, but the very name of love is an apple of discord between us.  My dear brother, abandon your scheme of marriage.”

 

 

“Why this refusal?”  He looked like John had insulted him.  “It makes no sense.”

 

 

“I earnestly wish to be your friend.”

 

 

“You can’t give half a sacrifice. You must give all.”

 

 

“To marry you would kill me!” John shouted.  He saw the look of hurt on Greg’s face before the man schooled his expression.  John felt bad but he did not back down.

 

 

“Kill you?  Kill you?  Those words are unmasculine and untrue.”  A look of understanding crossed his face and he nodded.  “I fear you have not forgotten your old association.  Despite the harm he tried to do to you.”

 

 

John shook his head.  “I will never see any of them again.  But I owe a debt to my old friends.  In many ways I started my life there.  I became John Watson.”

 

 

“God made John Watson!  You surely don’t give that man any credit for that?”

 

 

“Of course not.  I have always known myself.  But he was the first to recognize me, and to love what he saw.”

 

 

John felt the urge to steep back and walk away. To not hear what Greg was going to say.

 

 

“Say his name.”

 

 

John shook his head.

 

 

“Say it.”  Greg looked at him with anger.  “Say it!” He shouted.

 

 

Just then over the moor John thought he heard Sherlock’s voice calling to him.  He turned his face to see what was never there.

 

 

“Why have you not yet crushed this lawless passion?”

 

 

John heard his name being called again over the moors. He took a step away from Greg and looked back up the road away from the house.

 

 

“It offends me and it offends god!”

 

 

John started walking away from the house following the voice.  Sherlock sounded like he was in pain.  “What is it?” He asked the wind. “Where are you?” There was no response. “Wait for me.” He dropped his walking stick and hurried as fast as fast as he could with his limp.

 

 

“Why do you speak to the air?” Greg called after him.

 

 

He heard Sherlock call his name again. “I am coming.” He called back. He walked to the main road, to the signpost of Whitecross, where the carriage would pick him up. He traveled for two days and soon he saw familiar land.  He was so close.

 

 

He was let off at the George Inn. He hadn’t eaten since the journey started so he stopped in to rest.  After he had eaten he decided to walk the rest of the way to the manor. It was a road he had traveled often and had come to love.  His leg seemed to be hurting less the closer he got to the house.  His heart beat faster as he got near.  He could imagine the house in his mind.  As soon as he broke through the trees he would be able to see the top of it.  However, as he did, he saw that something was wrong before him was a scorched ruin. The battlements were broken and part of the building was blackened as if it had caught fire. As he got closer, he could see that a massive part of the house was simply gone.

 

 

He walked though the front entry into the place he had called home and found it a shell.  The wood was burned to ash leaving only the stone base of the house. Any furniture left was so badly damaged that no one would have wanted it. Lying on the floor in the main room was a painting of Sherlock’s brother half burned away. It was a ghost house.

 

 

Had he come all that way for nothing?

 

 

He moved through the house as best he could. He found what was left of Sherlock’s study and looked around at the destroyed books.  A noise behind him startled him and he looked up to see Anthea watching him from the doorway.

 

 

“ _John Watson_.” She murmured smiling. “ _I thought scavengers were come.  Then I saw you, and I thought it cannon be, you are a ghost_.”

 

 

She guided them out of the house and into the side garden.

 

 

“ _What happened here_?” John asked looking up at the house.

 

 

“ _A fire. No one knows how it started. I expect that Mrs. Poole took too much of the gin and water, and as she slept, the lady, Mrs. Holmes, unhooked the keys. She did what she failed to do a year ago, set the whole place to fire.  We would have all perished in the smoke, but Mr. Holmes would not rest till we were all safe.  Then he went in for her. The flames were tearing up so high it brought men running from the village.  I saw her standing on the roof.  The very edge.  I heard Mr. Holmes beg her to come down.”_ Anthea shook her head _.  “She jumped.  Mr. Holmes remained, as if he would not move until the fire consumed him_.” She paused and took John’s hand _.  “I didn’t know.  I didn’t know he had a wife, I promise you.  None of us did.  Mrs. Hudson has been so worried after you.  She was heartbroken when she found out the truth.”_

John gave her a small sad smile.

_“Why did you run away?  I would have helped you. I had some money saved. You could have come to me.”_

 

She embraced John startling him. She had always seemed like such a cold person before but he supposed their stories were similar and she saw a kinship in him.  Both had loved powerful men that they had been unable to marry, and both had lost them.

_“Where is he? He did survive, didn’t he?”_ John asked softly.

 

 

She looked at him sadly.

 

 

“ _There is a house tucked away in the woods.  He lives there with Dimlock and myself as his only companions.  I must warn you the fire has changed him. He’s gone blind and the spark in him has faded_.”

 

 

“ _Show me_.”

 

 

She nodded and led him to the house. Once inside she walked him to a door and nodded.  John pushed it open and at once saw his former master, a mere shell of his past self. He’d lost weight and his face was heavily scarred.  There was a fire but no candles.

 

 

All the pain and anger John had felt up to that moment seemed to fade away, and all there was, was Sherlock. The man he loved and would die for if asked. 

 

 

John shut the door after himself and watched as Gladstone lifted his head to look at him.  He whined and crossed the room, standing at John’s feet, looking up at him with wide eyes.  John scratched behind his ears and smiled.

 

 

“Gladstone.”  Sherlock called and patted the arm of the chair. 

 

 

Gladstone whined and refused to leave John. Sherlock seemed to sense he wasn’t alone and turned his head so his ear was towards the door.

 

 

“Who’s there?”  He asked softly.  “Dimlock?”

 

 

John crossed the room and stood in front of Sherlock.

 

 

Sherlock looked nervous as if afraid of attack.

 

 

John reached out and placed his hand over Sherlock’s. Sherlock placed his other hand over John’s, then lifted John’s hand between his hands and felt his palm.

 

 

“I know this hand.”

 

 

John took one of Sherlock’s hands and placed it on his face and tried to hold back his tears. 

 

 

Sherlock hand moved over his face, feelings its planes. Then his thumb traced his lips. “John Watson.” He whispered.

 

 

“Sherlock, I am come back to you.”

 

 

Sherlock staggered to his feet, his hand not leaving John’s face.  His other hand moved to cup John’s jaw.  They stood breathing each other in for a minute.  A tear rolled down John’s cheek

 

 

John had to break the silence. He took a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes with nothing to say?”

 

 

“You are real, John?  I dream about you so often but in the morning, you are gone. You always were a witch.”

 

 

John leaned forward and rested his forehead to Sherlock’s chest.  “I conscientiously believe so.”

 

 

Sherlock drew John’s face from his chest and kissed him.  There was so much pain, so much longing.  John reached out and placed his arms around Sherlock’s waist drawing him to him.

 

 

When there lips parted, Sherlock leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, their noses bumping into each other’s.

 

 

“A dream.”  Sherlock murmured.

 

 

“Awaken then.”  John whispered into his mouth.

 

 

Sherlock trembled and kissed John’s forehead then drew him into an almost painful embrace,   “You must stay with me.”

 

 

“I will stay with you as long as I live.”

 

 

“You shall stay.”  Sherlock smiled softly.  Then he pulled away and sat back in his chair.  “I’m a ghastly sight John.  I knew if you ever saw me again you would be revolted by me.”

 

 

John knelt in front of Sherlock and placed a hand on his cheek.  “I am sorry for this. The worst of it is one’s in danger of spoiling you too much.”

 

 

John made sure Sherlock ate his supper and teased him by combing the rats nest he called his hair.  It was clear his master wasn’t taking care of himself. Sherlock refused to let John get father then arms length away and would constantly reach for him as if he was confirming he was really there.

 

 

“Am I hideous John?”

 

 

“Very sir.  But you always were.”

 

 

Sherlock chuckled and let John fuss over him.

 

 

“You haven’t lost your wickedness, where ever you’ve been hiding.”

 

 

“I have been staying with good people. Far better then you.”

 

 

“Whom the devil have you been with?”

 

 

“I will tell you tomorrow.  I have been traveling for days I am tired.” He kissed Sherlock again. “Goodnight.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

John woke early the next day and went to work. He had decided before going to bed that he was going to drag Sherlock out of the house and force him to have a picnic.  He heard Sherlock yelling through the house soon after he woke and found him in the room he had slept in the night before, holding the sheets in his hands. It was clear he thought John had left. He snuck up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms ‘round his waist.

 

 

“You shouldn’t be in here.”  He felt Sherlock take a shuttering breath.

 

 

“Not a dream.”  Sherlock whispered.

 

 

“Not a dream.”  John whispered back.  With Dimlock’s help John got his picnic ready and dragged Sherlock outside. They sat on a blanket in front of the house, Sherlock’s head pillowed in John’s lap.

 

 

John told Sherlock about his journey, how he’s been found and taken care of by Greg and his sister.  He talked about the school he had run and about inheriting his fortune.  He went on for two hours telling Sherlock everything that had happened in the past year and a half. While Sherlock lay silently.

 

 

“This Lestrade person who you keep talking about, what of him?”

 

 

“He’s a few years older than you. His hair is grey and he has a very kind smile.”

 

 

“He’s handsome?”

 

 

“Yes, and a good Christian.”

 

 

“Is he intelligent?”

 

 

“Yes.  He’s quiet but what he does say is very to the point.  He taught me several languages.”

 

 

“Why did he do that?”

 

 

John could see Sherlock was getting flustered and knew he should stop but he felt the urge to tease him.  “He wanted me to go with him to India.”

 

 

Sherlock sat up.  “He wanted you to marry him?”

 

 

“Yes, he asked me to marry him.”

 

 

“Liar.  You’re just trying to torment me.”

 

 

“He asked me more then once.”

 

 

“If he’s so wonderful, then why are you here?”

 

 

He took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him softly.  “Because I do not love him. Not the way I love you. He doesn’t love me either.”

 

 

“You love me?  Even after all that’s happened?”

 

 

“Against my better judgment, I do.”

 

 

 

They went in soon after so Sherlock could rest. John helped in the kitchen and cleaning the house.  With so few servants, there was a lot of work to do.  John and Sherlock ate dinner and, after, Sherlock walked John to his room. They lingered on the threshold, neither one wanting to say goodnight.

 

 

“John.”

 

 

“Hmm.”  He swept Sherlock’s hair off his forehead with his fingers.

 

 

“John, I wish I could tell you I would be happy living with you as nothing more then your friend.  But I want a husband.  Not a nursemaid to look after me.  I want a husband to share my bed every night.  All day if we wish.  If I can’t have that I’d rather die.  We’re not the platonic sort, John.”

 

 

John took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Ask me, sir.”

 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes.  He looked so scared, so vulnerable.  “John will you marry me?”

 

 

“I will.  I would marry you tomorrow if I could.”

 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. His face opened and he smiled his first true smile since John had come back.

 

 

\-----

 

They were married three days later, both wearing their best suits.  Mrs. Hudson, who now lived in Millcote, was sent for and she, along with Anthea and Dimlock, were witnesses.  They had a small dinner after and Sherlock and John retired to their room.

 

 

John had always supposed he would be the more nervous of the two, but Sherlock proved more nervous then him.  Afraid of being rejected for his scars, Sherlock learned he was not the only one with wounds.  John trailed Sherlock’s fingers over all the scars he hid under his clothing. Some from the abuse he suffered as a child and others from his time in the military.

 

 

Sherlock was gentle when he took John. Whispering love against his skin. And while John was sore in the morning it was a good kind.  It made him feel how loved he really was.

 

 

Letters went out the next week informing people of the wedding.  Hamish was called back from school and a tutor was hired.  Violet and Kitty were both happy for John and promised to visit as soon as they were wanted.  Greg didn’t respond. He went to India alone and never returned.  Five years later John received a letter from him apologizing for his attitude and telling John he was happy for him.  He was dying when he wrote the letter.  By the time it reached John, he had already passed.

 

 

Over time, Sherlock’s eyes healed and he gained much of his sight back.  A good deal of his scars faded and he gained back the weight and muscles he had lost. Servants were hired and the house made beautiful again.  Kitty and Violet both married and Anthea returned to France.

 

 

John had never been so happy. His nightmares faded and he learned to forgive the people who had done him harm.  He and Sherlock traveled much of the time, but were always home for Christmas.  They both calmed with age though they always teased the other.  Hamish was made Sherlock’s heir and went on to marry. They lived together as a family for many years.  It was more than John could have ever asked for.

 

 

His favorite part of the day was when evening set in. When he had said goodnight to anyone else in the house and he and Sherlock retreated to their room. In Sherlock’s arms John discovered what it was to be loved and knew he had finally found his true home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i went with the sappy ending i could't help it. i hope you liked it. if there are any books or films people would like me to do a crossover with put them in comments section and i might do it!
> 
> art i commissioned for this fic!!
> 
> http://sweetlittlekitty.tumblr.com/post/117873539058/commissioned-by-lovely-jonnyluvssherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I made the War John fought in up. I also (hope I) made up the idea that they would send students at charity schools to the front lines.
> 
> In Victorian Era England religion was very important. Someone saying they didn’t believe in god was a big deal. There were many strick moral codes. This was the era of the prudes. John realizing Hamish’s mother was a fallen woman is a big deal.
> 
> If you know the book then you know John (Jane) struggles a lot with doing what’s morally good and earthy desire. This will tie a lot into some religious talk. Most of the religious talk is my reinterpretations of what the book is saying.
> 
> Gytrash- The Gytrash a legendary black dog known in northern England, was said to haunt lonely roads awaiting travelers. Appearing in the shape of horses, mules, or dogs, the Gytrash haunt solitary ways and lead people astray but they can also be benevolent, guiding lost travelers to the right road. They are usually feared.
> 
> I have tried to work as many BBC and original cannon characters in as possible. There has been some gender bending. If you think a characters is based off someone then you’re probably right.
> 
> Despite the fact that it’s Victorian England Gay marriage is legal, because I say so.


End file.
